A Mere Chill
by Incoming Grapefruit
Summary: Merlin and the knights find themselves tasked with caring for Arthur when he falls gravely ill. With dark creatures threatening the borders of the kingdom, will Merlin be able to prevent Arthur from sacrificing his health in favour of protecting Camelot? And to make matters worse, there's a new knight in Camelot. A knight who dislikes servants who don't know their place.
1. Chapter 1

**_Welcome! For returning readers, this is a rewritten version of the unfinished story that bore the same title. For new readers - it's what it says on the tin! Action, adventure, dark magic...and shameless, shameless Arthur/Merlin/Knights brotherhood love. Because months in each other's company, fighting for and alongside one another, brings people together. And those five are the closest thing to a family that we see in Camelot._**

**_Also, merely because I LOVE the Merlin/Lancelot brotherhood, this story is set before 4.01. Which means that Lancelot lives!  
_****_Sir Leon remains to be one of my favourite characters. He's like the Phil Coulson of the Merlin fandom, for those who enjoyed The Avengers. Leon is everyone's big brother. It's canon. *nods*_**

**_Standard Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the BBC and associated filming companies. I own nothing except the occasional junior knight and a bunch of psychedelic horses.  
_**

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

o~O~o

Dawn had barely broken over the winter-chilled kingdom of Camelot, and few had risen from their beds save the castle servants (who would insist, if questioned, that the new working day began as soon as the previous one had passed) and a dozen or so guards, who were duty-bound to abandon the warmth of the castle barracks to relieve the night-watch. At such an hour, and with the weather so bitter, it was rare for any man to rise of his own volition.

Which is why the presence of four knights, clothed as though for for a journey and huddled in a cluster around a door that was fast shut, drew many a curious glance from passers-by. Indeed, one poor maid was so startled by the sight that she dropped her basket of laundry and spent several minutes apologising profusely as she gathered it back up.

From their serious countenance, all who saw them knew that something was amiss. Perhaps a new enemy threatened the kingdom? The servants spoke in whispers as they passed, slowing as though hoping to catch a snippet of the knights' murmured conversation. None who overheard could make out any discernible topic, and so rumours spread - as ever they do among servants and stablehands - until word reached the castle kitchens, whereupon Maerwynn, a woman of common sense and practical reasoning, clouted the gossipers with her copper ladle and told them to _"leave the runnin' of the kingdom to thems' who understand such matters"_.

On a higher level of the castle, a certain bearded knight looked ready to bestow the same treatment upon his fellow men.

"Gentlemen," Sir Leon said, with perhaps an ounce less patience than the previous three occasions. "It would be prudent to resolve this matter _before_ our company departs. Now come; show your worth. It takes but one man to volunteer and the crisis is at an end."

"I vote we send Elyan. He's the youngest," Percival suggested cheerfully, shooting the youth teasing grin before quickly side-stepping the arm that shot out to thump him.

"I've been in there twice already this past fortnight," the dark-skinned knight protested. "I'm not doing it again unless I'm allowed to carry a weapon."_  
_

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a patient sigh. "You're dragging him out of bed, Elyan, not disembowelling him."

"No, no, no," Elyan corrected quickly, firmly, before his fate was sealed, holding his hand up palm-outwards to the older knight. "_I'm_ not doing anything. Not without backup." A new light dawned in his eyes as an idea occurred to him. "Why don't we send Merlin? Gwaine's more likely to try and strike my sister than to lash out at Merlin. _He_ can wake him."

"Merlin has enough on his plate already," Lancelot reasoned on their young friend's behalf. "And given that he has Arthur to contend with every morning, I feel he suffers enough."

Leon nodded. "Agreed. Merlin has his own duties to attend to; Gwaine is our responsibility." He levelled Lancelot with a _look_. "I still find _your_ excuse somewhat lacking, brother."

Lancelot put a hand to his heart. "My friends, I truly regret that I cannot be of service; but, alas, I have a stubborn horse to attend to, and I've already kept her waiting." He clapped Leon on the shoulder and stepped away, flashing a sly grin back at the trio. "It's been an honour fighting alongside you; I hope that death at Gwaine's hand comes swiftly and painlessly to the poor soul who wakes him."

As the younger knight strode off swiftly down the torch-lit corridor, Leon heaved another sigh and turned back to face his two remaining comrades. "Together?"

With resigned nods and wary looks, they turned towards the closed door in unison, bracing themselves to carry out their duty.

o~O~o

"Arthur? You awake?"

His tentative call was answered with an honest snore. Smiling, Merlin nudged the door closed with his hip and crept softly across the room to set down his burdens. The candelabra he placed upon the nearby dresser that it might provide sufficient light to navigate the cluttered bedchamber without injuring himself. Side-stepping a stray boot, he slid the prince's breakfast tray across the table and winced at the high-pitched screech of wood upon wood. He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the ornately carved four-poster bed, but the Arthur-shaped mound of blankets and furs did not so much as twitch.

Doing his best to make as little noise as possible, thus granting his master another few minutes of undisturbed rest, Merlin set about building a fire in the cold hearth. It was frustrating work; the wood seemed stubbornly unwilling to catch alight and when he dropped his flint, he succeeded only in bumping his head against the low mantle as he groped about for it in the semi-darkness. Reaching the end of his patience - which was never at its best so early in the morning, and even less so when the bitter chill of winter still nipped cruelly at his hands and feet - he eyed the lump of royal blankets cautiously and shifted around so that his body blocked the hearth from the prince's line of sight. He took a deep breath and grew still, eyes trained on the uncooperative logs before him.

_"Forebearne."_

Fierce flames erupted from the wood, hot and bright, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. Blinking the yellow dots from his vision, he glanced again towards Arthur's bed. A soft snore shattered the tense silence of the chamber and he smiled, relieved. Satisfied that the prince remained blissfully unaware of his manservant's blatant disregard of the law, Merlin sat down on the hearth rug and inched closer to the fire, eager to thaw the chill from his bones.

He was pleasantly surprised at Arthur's continued slumber. The prince was not, by nature, a heavy sleeper. Not unless he had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, as was his wont in times of hardship and grief. Such had often been the case during those long, unpleasant months when he and Merlin – accompanied by a host of Camelot's finest – had scoured the land in search of Morgana and Morgause. It had been a dark, bitter hunt. The knights, enraged by Morgana's betrayal and the weighty loss of so many loyal townsfolk, had determinedly followed Arthur's leadership through bog and briar for any sign of the two sisters. Weeks spent afield, trailing the roads on horseback or stumbling through the oppressive gloom of an endless forest on weak and weary legs, ever fearful of being ambushed by the enemy, only to return to the city empty-handed time and time again, embittered by their failure.

Arthur had slept little during those cold, uncomfortable nights; waking at the slightest of sounds, volunteering himself for the watch hour after hour, pacing back and forth amid the rows of sleeping men to reassure himself that all in his company fared well. Those who were closest to him knew that grief and guilt weighed heavily on him; guilt for the broken relationship with his only sister, and grief for his father's shattered spirit. Eventually the knights, concerned for Arthur's welfare, had taken to rallying against the young prince until he conceded to take rest.

Merlin shuddered and leaned in closer to the fire, suddenly feeling the dampness of the forest around him, the bite of the wind against his face and that ever-present knot of unease curling tighter in his stomach. The weather had not been kind to them during those long months; summer had passed all too quickly, fading into a cold and merciless Fall. Arthur's mood had darkened with the skies, and the air of unwavering determination that the prince had endeavoured to maintain throughout the process of rebuilding their kingdom had begun to slip. With each passing day he grew more silent, donning a grim countenance that reflected the grey world around them. Too often, Merlin had awakened late at night to find Arthur far from the land of dreams, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll with his red cloak drawn tightly about him; his face haggard and pale in the light of the dying campfire, blue eyes staring unseeingly into the darkness, awash with grief and pain and despair. Uther's eyes. In those moments, Merlin had seen the resemblance between father and son that had previously been lacking. Merlin would watch him silently, fearfully. He had not known this ancient, haunted stranger. He hadn't _ wanted_ to know him.

Then Arthur, as if sensing Merlin's presence for the first time, would turn his head to look at him and the turmoil in his gaze would recede, albeit briefly. With the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a half-smile that never quite reached that sombre gaze, the prince would lean across the short gap between their bedrolls to nudge his arm gently.

"_Lie down, Merlin. __You ought to sleep while you can. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."_

And each time without fail, Merlin would simply nod his head in compliance and obediently close his eyes, feeling sick with guilt and anguish – for still, in his heart of hearts, he had blamed himself for the consequences of Morgana's betrayal. If he had made his suspicions public, at least to Arthur and the knights, would such a bitter fate have befallen Camelot? If Uther had harboured such doubts, even in their smallest measure, would her betrayal have wounded him so brutally? The questions had clouded his thoughts and weighted his every step for those long months of searching. And in the dead of night, when shadows moved between the trees and secrets were passed in whispers along the leafy canopy overhead, there had seemed no end in sight. He had longed for the comfort of his mother's arms like any lost child.

Merlin shuddered again, pulling himself free from the dark memory and wisely scooting back an inch or so before he singed himself on the fire. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he lowered his gaze and frowned at the hearth rug. Why did the painful memories of those terrible months still linger? It had felt this way after his father's death, but life had moved on and he had quickly grown to think fondly of those few hours they had spent together around their small campfire. And if the memories carried with them some residual pain of his passing, it was a good pain; a comforting pain. An assurance that it had all been _real_. But what was there to gain from reliving those bitter nights in the wild? Little good it ever did him. He often became so lost in memory that he would quite forget what was going on around him, and it wasn't until he had registered the sharp pain of walking into a door or cutting his finger on a sharpened blade that he would return to awareness. Gaius was often less than impressed when such accidents occurred.

_"Unless you intend to learn something productive from the experience, kindly remain focused on the present,"_ the physician had grumbled only two weeks ago, deftly binding Merlin's bleeding hand where the knife had bitten into his palm. _"Else next time your mind wanders, it may cost you a finger. And if you **must** reflect needlessly on events that were entirely beyond your control, please have the sense to abstain from doing so when you are chopping vegetables."_

Harsh words, perhaps, but never spoken truer. And it wasn't as though his guardian hadn't been truly angry; Merlin knew the man well enough to understand that the gruff, terse words carried nought but concern and paternal affection. Merlin had apologised all the same. For indeed, what _did_ he seek to achieve from wallowing in the feelings of remorse and self-pity stirred by these memories? Not wisdom, surely. Atonement, then? Did he seek to punish himself, somehow; to rid himself of the burdensome weight of guilt that so often lay about his shoulders?

Yes. Yes, perhaps it was so.

The guilt was easing, albeit slowly. Three months had passed since Arthur had called off the search for Morgana and Morgause; three long, glorious months wherein peace had reigned throughout the kingdom. The winter Solstice had come and gone in a blur of music and merriment, the people of Camelot rejoicing as they had not done in many years, thankful to be alive after the horrors of the recent battle. And while seeing his father as the shell of the man he had once known continued to trouble Arthur, the prince had gradually returned to his old self. The only sign that Uther's health still weighed heavily upon him was in the brief moments of silence where Arthur's gaze would grow distant, his expression sombre, and his posture would sag as he bore the weight of the entire kingdom on his shoulders. And, in many ways, this was perhaps true.

As the kingdom and her prince had gained in strength, so had the bonds of friendship between Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table (as Gwaine had taken to calling them). And as for the other knights who had joined the host in the hunt for the two witches, although there still remained a definitive hierarchical barrier between them, Merlin knew that he had gained their respect.

"_Arthur is fortunate in you,"_ Sir Dorogaen had once said, glancing across at him as they gathered firewood together in the twilight of the forest. _"Few servants would choose to stand by him as you have done, and for that you have our thanks."_

Smiling now, his chest filling with sudden warmth at the memory, Merlin pushed himself to his feet and stretched. He had delayed the inevitable long enough. And although he was loath to wake His Royal Grumpiness, he knew the consequences would be worse if he allowed Arthur to sleep late into the morning and thus ruin his schedule for the day. It had happened only once before; Arthur had been livid. In an act of revenge, he had cheerfully volunteered Merlin to be his sparring partner on the training grounds that afternoon – the resulting bruises had left a lasting impression upon the young warlock. In the face of such cool, calculating fury, dealing with the prince's ruffian-like behaviour first thing in the morning had seemed by far the more preferable option.

Moving to the window, he heaved the heavy curtains apart. The sun was just beginning to rise, turning the cloud-speckled sky a light grey. The kingdom lay adorned with a fresh blanket of snow, the training grounds below glistening in the light of the dawn, marred only a little by the footprints of soldiers and stable-hands. Ignoring the urge to throw open the window and breathe in the crisp morning air, he turned to face his still-slumbering future king.

"Morning, Sire!"

He waited a moment for the usual groan and the mumbled, sleep-slurred _"go **away**, Merlin"_, but none came. With a sigh, he strode determinedly towards the bed, sat down on the side of the mattress and gave what he _guessed_ to be Arthur's shoulder a harder-than-necessary thump. The blankets stirred with a sharp intake of breath.

"Come on, Arthur," Merlin coaxed cheerfully. "The others will start assembling in the courtyard soon, and you know you're never at your best without breakfast."

Arthur groaned, the noise sounding cracked and hoarse and rather unlike the prince's usual lusty response. There came a soft, dry cough, then:  
"You're sitting on my hand, Merlin."

The warlock winced and shot to his feet. "Sorry." He cleared his throat and glanced towards the covered tray on Arthur's small table. "Breakfast?"

"Nngh."

"Cook sent up a plate of sweet rolls..."

"What?" Layers of blankets and furs were clumsily thrown aside as Arthur fought his way to the surface. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he squinted towards his breakfast tray, eyes unused to the dim light, and rasped, "How did you manage that?"

Merlin shrugged, smiling now, and bent down to pick up the stray boot by his foot. "I just told Maerwynn how much you liked them. A compliment goes a long way, you know; especially in the kitchens."

Arthur cocked a weary half-smile, rubbing a hand across his eyes as he yanked the coverlets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He paused briefly, frowning, before snatching up the topmost blanket and wrapping it about his shoulders.

"It's too cold this morning," he grumbled hoarsely, sliding his feet into the leather-and-sheepskin clogs at his bedside. "I ought to have postponed the outing until the weather had improved, or at least…" He swayed for a moment on his feet, reaching out to press one hand against the bedpost and hold the other to his temple as he closed his eyes, wincing.  
"Oh, gods."

Merlin glanced up from where he knelt collecting the loose papers that had fallen from Arthur's desk. He stilled, his brow creasing in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Mm," the prince grunted, passing a hand across his face as he stumbled over to his chair and sat down heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Your throat sounds raw," Merlin said softly as he stood to his feet, arms laden with parchment. The crease between his eyebrows remained. "You're aren't falling ill, are you?"

"No."

Setting the papers down in a neat pile beside the inkwell, the young warlock cast a worried glance towards the prince, eyeing the flushed cheeks and pinched look. "If you have a headache, I'm sure Gaius could-"

"I'm _fine_, Merlin," Arthur interrupted firmly, taking a large gulp of warm milk and averting his gaze. The action seemed to calm him, for the next time he looked up his eyes were apologetic. "Really, it's nothing. I'm just tired." A familiar smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Although your concern is touching."

"Who's concerned?" Merlin replied flippantly. "I just don't want to catch anything from you."

"I'll throw you in the stocks," Arthur warned casually around a mouthful of sweetbread. "Just you wait and see."

"Where are we going?" Merlin asked, pretending he hadn't heard because Arthur, as always, was merely trying to get a rise out of him. "You said we'd be out riding, but you never specified where."

Arthur swallowed his first roll and reached for another. "Just out."

Merlin rolled his eyes at the typically cryptic response and turned towards the door again. "I hear it's lovely there this time of year."

He heard Arthur sniff a grin behind him. "Stop whining. Some of the knights are coming with us, under the pretence of assessing the perimeter patrol. It's an excuse for some fun, that's all. Do you remember _fun_, Merlin?"

"Oh, yes," the younger man answered lightly, opening the door and scooting out backwards so that only his head was left peeking into the room. "But then I met you."

He pulled his head back just in time, if the tell-tale thud of a cow hide slipper against the door was anything to go by. Deeply pleased with himself, he whistled a merry tune loud enough so that Arthur could hear it and strolled off languidly down the corridor.

.

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_**A short chapter to begin with, but the next one is already topping 4000 words. I love feedback, so please feel free to review or drop me a PM. I hope you enjoyed the first instalment of the reboot. **_

_**I intend to update weekly, every Sunday evening to be precise, so unless real life gets in the way (as it is wont to do, on occasion), chapter 2 should be posted a week from now. Stay tuned!**_

_**I.G xoxoxox**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_An update that's actually on time? What is this sorcery?!  
_**_**(And yikes, the word count's topping 5000 this week!)**_

**_I hope everyone's had a lovely week. A big thanks to everyone who reviewed, the feedback was wonderfully positive. Special thanks to the anonymous reviewers, since I can't send you a personal thank-you._**

**_So, this story has taken a new road, one I'm quite excited about. I've brought in a villain! Ten points to the house who guesses who it is. He's not very subtle about it. ;)_**

**_Enjoy, folks. _**

* * *

The dark eyes gazed down at him unblinkingly, beseechingly, but Merlin refused to be swayed.  
"You're not coming with us," he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're staying here. And there's no use in looking at me like that, you know it won't work."

The horse stomped his foreleg, pushing against the length of rope that spanned the stall opening. With a soft, exasperated smile, Merlin rubbed his knuckles against the white oval on the beast's forehead.

"You know Arthur wouldn't allow it, old thing. The weather's too cold for you. Wouldn't you rather be in here, where it's warm and dry and the stablehands can spoil you with oats in Arthur's absence?" He sighed as the horse turned away from his ministrations. Hengroen was as stubborn and proud as his master, and old age had not diminished the beast's thirst for adventure. "Look, the decision's already been made so you'll gain nothing by giving me the cold shoulder. Hengroen? Come here, you daft creature. No, come _here_. Hengro- aah!"

He hopped back a pace, shaking out his left foot and wiggling his bruised toes. _He definitely takes after Arthur._ "You know what? Fine. Be that way." He turned to finish attending to Arthur's young chestnut mount, Cabal, who stood waiting impatiently in the opposite stall. "I'll give your carrot to _him_, then."

Hengroen stretched out his neck and caught the back of Merlin's neckerchief between his teeth, halting his retreat. The weathered beast snorted, tugging forcefully until the young warlock turned back to him with a sigh of fond exasperation and held up his hands in defeat. The horse relinquished his hold immediately and shifted from right foreleg to left, eagerly nosing Merlin's jacket pocket.

"Just as demanding as your master," he remarked wryly, holding the small, bruised carrot in the palm of his hand and raising it to the horse's mouth, where it promptly vanished with the kiss of the beast's velvety lips. "There. Happy now?"

Munching enthusiastically, Hengroen snuffled Merlin's empty hand, snorted, then turned away to drink from his trough.

"Another battle won, lad?"

"Indeed, my lord." Merlin turned to smile at the older man, dipping his head to acknowledge him in a courteous greeting.

Sir Gildor was an elder in Camelot's host, a fine swordsman and an even better diplomat. Merlin had seen him diffuse many a tense situation in the courtroom, and his wise council and calm disposition made him a knight who was worthy of any man's respect. He was closer in age to King Uther than to the other members of the patrol party, at least fifteen years Arthur's senior. Sir Leon had trained under him for many years, as had Arthur himself. Perhaps that explained the older man's patience. Merlin could only imagine what it must have been like to manage Arthur in his youth.

The knight moved to stand beside him and admire the horse. "He's a fine steed, despite his age. But alas, he is destined to watch on as those younger than him ride off to battle and adventure." The knight stroked a weathered hand down Hengroen's flanks, the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening as he chuckled. "I know the feeling, old friend."

"Oh come," Leon protested with a smile, glancing across at the pair as he saddled his mount. "A frost will chill Hades before you follow the horse's example and retire to a less exciting life, brother."

"I will willingly set my sword aside for the last time," Gildor replied neutrally, caressing the muzzle of his own horse, "the moment the prince ceases to fling himself into peril without a moment's notice."

The knights had the decency to disguise their amusement as best they could – all save Gwaine, who guffawed with his usual enthusiasm, earning himself a reproving glance from the seventh member of their riding party. Gwaine grinned back at him, unphased.

"Something bothering you, Sir Hugh?" he asked lightly.

The other man's gaze hardened momentarily, before he caught Sir Gildor watching him and turned away again. "I merely don't think it appropriate that we discuss Prince Arthur's affairs behind his back." He tightened the strap on the horse's girth sharply and the beast shifted, ears flicking back. "I've known treason to begin through lesser means."

Merlin saw Gwaine take half a step forward, a protest ready on his lips, only to be halted when Leon grabbed his forearm and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, never once taking his eyes off his own mount.

"My apologies, Sir Hugh," Gildor intervened, the epitome of calm reasoning. "My comment was inappropriate."

That seemed to appease the younger knight's temper. He dipped his head stiffly to acknowledge the apology, before tugging on the reins of his black steed and guiding it from the stall, leaving a tense silence in his wake until the man was a safe distance from the stables.

Leon released Gwaine's arm and clapped him on the back with an apologetic sort of smile, while Percival and Elyan leaned over the wall of the adjoining stall which stabled both their mounts, disapproval written clearly in their faces.

"Remind me why we had to invite him along?" Elyan asked.

Leon sighed, lengthening the stirrups on his horse's saddle. "Sir Hugh arrived with Lord Aggravaine," the knight explained. "His bloodline has a long history of loyalty to the king, and Arthur wants to make him feel welcome in Camelot."  
He sent the younger three a _look_. "And I realise that Sir Hugh may be trying at times, but he's also Lord Aggravaine's kin. Don't rise to the bait; the last thing we want is to cause further problems for Arthur."

Merlin kept his silence as the other men murmured their agreements, focusing on saddling the horse Arthur had gifted him with only last month, Morholt, and trying to ignore the twinge of unease in his gut. He had his own opinions about Sir Hugh, and they went along the lines of _spoilt, selfish, inconsiderate, immoral, bloodthirsty __**bully**_, but he wasn't about to say so aloud. In the week since Hugh's arrival, Merlin had already become intimately acquainted with many of these aspects. The older man didn't appreciate his 'familiarity' with Arthur, and had made a point of taking him aside on his first day in the castle to make it clear that the knight was 'onto him'.

"_I've been burdened with servants like you in the past,"_ he'd said, his voice low to keep from alerting passers-by to their conversation. _"And if I were Arthur, I would've beaten such insolence from you long ago. Mark my words, boy; learn to know your place, or I'll put you in it."_

The second encounter had been of a similar nature, only two days ago. Arthur had been insisting that he wasn't hungry when the council had adjourned, and Merlin had ignored his protests in favour of bringing him a plate of food anyway. The prince had eaten it, and looked a darn sight better afterwards, but Sir Hugh – who had witnessed the incident – had been less than pleased. He hadn't said anything, but the dark looks he'd graced Merlin with ever since had made his point known well enough.

"Don't worry," a voice said from behind him, and he fumbled a bit with the saddle-girth in surprise, glancing back at the speaker. Lancelot's smile was warm and reassuring, and the hand on Merlin's back even more so.  
"I know Sir Hugh doesn't approve of you, but you're among friends here. Don't play the timid servant just because he expects you to."

It was so like Lancelot to know exactly what was troubling him, and the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth came unbidden, a natural instinct in response to his friend's kindness. He fastened the girth with more confidence and nodded.  
"Well, I'll be expecting you to jump to my rescue if he takes a sword to me."

"Without hesitation," Lancelot promised, holding a hand to his heart and raising the other as if making a vow. "Although I don't doubt Arthur would beat me to it."

"Beat you to what?" Gwaine's head appeared around the side of the stall, hay sticking out of his dark hair in places. "And speaking of his royal highness, where is he? I thought he'd be down here by now."

"I believe he went to visit his father," Gildor answered, glancing back at them over his shoulder as he led his mount from the stable.

Leon nodded, confirming the older man's words. "He'll meet us in the courtyard. And if you're all ready to depart, we ought to join Gildor."

Merlin was unsurprised when the three younger knights began to move out without further comment. Sir Leon had ever been the voice of authority in Arthur's absence. Although there was no formally established chain of command after the prince – for all knights were said to be brothers, equals – it was generally accepted by the host of Camelot that those closest to Arthur would take charge when their prince could not. None could deny Leon's close kinship with their future king, nor his natural skills as a leader.

"Merlin?"

Glancing up from his task, he met the older man's calm gaze and flashed a brief smile. "Almost done. Cabal was more than usually uncooperative this morning."

Sir Leon ducked underneath the rope and leaned against the wall of the stall near Morholt's head, caressing the horse's muzzle. "When you spoke to Arthur this morning, how did he seem to you?"

"Arthur?" Merlin's brow creased as his cold fingers fumbled with another buckle, and he rubbed his hands together before trying the strap again. "Sorry, I don't follow."

"Did he seem...in good health?"

The warlock paused, eyes lowered in thought for a moment. "Now that you mention it, no. He wasn't himself." He glanced up to meet the knight's concerned gaze. "I don't claim to be as knowledgeable about these things at Gaius, but at a guess I'd say he's coming down with a winter chill."

"Then we are of the same mind," the bearded knight sighed, reaching out to pet Cabal absently when the horse nudged him. "He shouldn't be out riding in such bitter weather if he's ailing. I did _try_ to dissuade him."

Merlin shot him an amused sideways look. "No luck there, I take it?"

The corner of Leon's mouth twitched. "None whatsoever. If anything, it only served to strengthen his determination." He sighed again. "Stubborn man."

"I'll pass on the compliment."

The knight fixed him with a disconcertingly cool stare. "Betrayal is a two-pronged fork, my friend." He leaned back against the wall of the stall and rubbed his chin in thought. "Now, what was it you said to me the other day? '_Arthur's only endearing quality is that he sleeps like a child'_? I'm certain he'd be delighted to hear-"

"No need," Merlin interjected, holding up a hand. "My lips are sealed to your secrets. Wild horses couldn't drag them from me."

"Not even _that_ horse?"

The manservant glanced over at Hengroen's stall with playfully narrowed eyes. "_He_ is not a horse. He's Arthur's other half."

The knight laughed, reaching out to ruffle the warlock's dark hair, and the action rang with a sort of warm familiarity that brought a wider, more genuine smile to Merlin's lips.  
"He, at least, we can keep safely stabled out of the cold. We'll just need to keep an eye on Arthur. You'll let me know if he worsens?"

Merlin dipped his head in answer, grateful in more ways that Leon could possibly understand at the easy manner in which the knight continued to address him; as an equal, a comrade. He had just placed Arthur's wellbeing in Merlin's hands without question, as though it were natural to delegate such a hefty responsibility to a manservant. As Leon turned away to lead his own mare from the stable, Merlin gave into the pleased grin that had been tugging at his lips.

"Oh, and Merlin?"

He turned just in time to catch the objects hurtling towards his face, although one still hit his nose with a soft _thwap_. He glanced down at the brown leather, then back up at Leon questioningly.

"Gloves, Merlin," the older man elaborated, smiling. "They normally go on your hands." He tugged on his horse's reins to urge the mare forwards. "They're too small for me, I thought you might be able to use them."

The knight was gone before Merlin could thank him, having temporarily lost the power of speech, so the warlock gave up trying to work his jaw and instead glanced back down at the gift. The gloves were soft through extensive use, supple under Merlin's hands, and he could see the new stitching at the tips where a craftsmen had cut a good half-inch from each finger and sewn the seam back together. Leon had paid for his own good, leather gloves to be tailored to fit _him_, a _manservant_.

Oh, Sir Hugh would love this.

He slid the gloves on, flexing his fingers and grinning anew at how well they fit him. His own gloves, tucked into his belt, were made of wool and cut off at the first knuckle; cheap to purchase and easily mended, but they offered his fingers little protection from the bitter chill. These fit like a second skin, and already the feeling was returning to his fingertips as they thawed out.

The smile still in place, he turned back to face the two horses, running a gloved hand through Cabal's coarse mane. Then his thoughts turned once again to Arthur and he heaved a sigh, leaning in to press their foreheads together.  
"Grant me one favour," he murmured, stroking the chestnut flanks with his other hand. "If he faints and falls from you back, do _try_ not to trample him underfoot."

In the opposite stall, Hengroen's nicker sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

o~O~o

Once free from the cover of the forest that bordered the main city, they abandoned the icy dirt road in favour of riding out across the fields towards the northern outpost. The flat grassland lay hidden beneath an unblemished sheet of soft snow that stretched out before them as far as the eye could see. A frosty breeze blew directly against them, nipping cruelly at any exposed skin and unfurling their cloaks so that the fabric fluttered out behind them like banners as they rode.

Merlin tightened his grip on the reins, glad for the added insulation of Leon's old gloves. He had tugged his neckerchief up over the lower half of his face to shield it from the biting wind, but still his cheeks stung and his nose throbbed. Clenching his teeth together to keep them from chattering, he shot a sideways glance at Arthur, studying him surreptitiously. To the untrained eye, the prince likely seemed fit and healthy. Weary, certainly - his slumped posture left no room for doubt in that regard – but not necessarily unwell. And yet Merlin _knew_ Arthur; better, perhaps, than any other man. And he could tell that something was very, very wrong.

They had maintained a swift, steady canter for the past half-hour or so. It usually went without saying that Arthur was a skilled horseman, riding with the same natural ease as his father - and yet at present he rode as one unaccustomed to the saddle. He held the reins slack; far too slack for a horse as young and flighty as Cabal. His body was hunched forwards as though he shouldered some weighty burden, and his gloved hands rested lifelessly against the pommel of his saddle. He had lowered his head against the sting of the wind, but the pained crease between his eyes was still visible. Merlin's bones ached just _looking_ at him.

Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes swiftly sought out Sir Leon amid the small cluster of red-cloaked horsemen. The knight was riding several metres behind and to the right of Arthur's mount, so Merlin reined in his own horse to match the steady, controlled gait of the older man's grey mare. Morholt, displeased at the sudden change in pace, tossed his head agitatedly and stumbled a few steps beneath him. The sound of irregular hoof-beats was enough to snap Arthur out of his dazed stupor. He twisted around to glance over at Merlin, then straightened his posture, flicked the reins and urged Cabal into a gallop.

Pulling the neckerchief from his face, Merlin shot Lancelot a mildly beseeching glance. The dark-haired knight gave a single nod of understanding and rode off after the prince, raising a hand to beckon the other knights onwards. Merlin kept in pace with Leon's mare, waiting until they were out of earshot before voicing his concerns.

"He shouldn't be out in this weather."

The older man shook his head with a sigh that was audible even above the rush of icy wind. "One does not simply order the prince of Camelot to retire to bed." His concerned eyes narrowed as he tracked Arthur's progress ahead. "He was always like this, even as a lad. Wilful, headstrong...determined. And far too-"

"Pigheaded?"

The knight's lips twitched. "I was going to say 'stubborn'."

"Mine was better."

"Nevertheless," Sir Leon continued, "he _is_ the crown prince. If there is nought we can do to dissuade him, we must simply ready ourselves for the consequences."

Merlin chewed on his lower lip, the flesh already cracked and raw from exposure to the cold air. "How long will this take?"

"The outpost inspection? Only a few moments. The archery contest may take a while longer."

Merlin started at that. "The _what?_"

"Arthur didn't tell you?" Leon sounded remarkably unsurprised.

The manservant glowered at the prince's retreating figure. "No."

"Did you fail to notice that we all carry longbows?" the knight queried lightly, trying and failing to hide his amusement. "A weapon we seldom use in battle?"

Merlin glanced at the bow and quiver strapped to the older man's back and felt the heat rise to his cheeks, thawing the cold skin so that it tingled uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and looked away again. "I've had other things on my mind. Besides, Arthur didn't bring _his_ bow."

Now Leon laughed outright. "That's because Percival broke it on the training field last week. Try not to bring it up; I don't think Arthur's quite forgiven him."

Merlin shook his head. "But why the northern outpost? Surely it would be safer to hold an archery tournament in Camelot?"

"Arthur grows weary of his confinement to the city. There he must always be Prince Arthur, a great leader of men and heir to the throne of Camelot. But out here," he grasped the reins in one hand and gestured to the open plains with a sweep of his arm, "he is merely a knight. Out here he can forget the burdens of his inheritance and simply _be._"

"But are you sure the forest is safe?" Merlin navigated a snow-covered lump that he expected was a boulder, needing to tug rather forcefully on the reins when Morholt made as though to jump over it instead. "It borders the Darkening Woods."

"He'll be well guarded, you have my word. And Sir Dorogaen claims that the area is safe. Unless, of course, you choose to venture deep into the forest - but that isn't something I would recommend. The outpost is but half a mile past the tree line. The perimeter is patrolled daily, no evil can pass unseen." Leon glanced at his companion, his expression calm and reassuring. "Try not to look so worried. I won't allow him to overexert himself."

"I'm not worried about him," the young warlock protested, somewhat unconvincingly. "I'm worried about what he'll do to _me_ when he ends up in bed with lung fever. He blames me for everything, you know."

"Mm. You suffer much for his sake." Leon turned his head again and flashed him a knowing smile. "We aren't far from the encampment now. I'll see that he takes rest, even if it's only to drain a wineskin or two with the men. Now come, my young friend. We seem to have misplaced our charge."

Merlin nodded and shifted his gaze to the group of knights in the distance. Beyond the cluster of red dots, he could already see the dark border of the forest looming the horizon where the tall boughs stood out against the white of the fields that preceded them. Trying to quell the sense of unease that stirred in his gut, he tugged the neckerchief back over the lower half of his face and nudged Morholt into a gallop.

o~O~o

"'_Mind the horses'_," Merlin muttered, wrapping the cloak more tightly about his shivering frame. "I'd like to see _you_ trying to mind this bloody beast of yours. You drag me out here through field and forest to play with _bows_, and you still have the nerve to- Cabal! Cabal, _enough_!"

He lurched forwards to yank the rope from the horse's mouth, shaking a finger in admonishment. "I swear, if you bite through another one of these you won't be getting a carrot from me for a _month_."

Nonplussed, Cabal lowered his head to drink from the trough. With a sigh, Merlin regained his seat upon the roughly hewn log that served as a bench, leaning back so that his shoulders rested against the damp wood of the outpost's single cabin. His gaze drifted lazily over to where the knights had gathered on the other side of the large clearing. Bows in hand and arrows strung, they stood facing a weather-beaten target that had been nailed to a gnarly old oak thirty paces away. Aside from the ever-creaking forest, the repetitive _'whoosh-thunk'_ of the arrows and an occasional poorly stifled cough from Arthur, all was quiet. And _fie_, Merlin was bored.

The outpost was hardly picturesque. The log cabin was small – undoubtedly a tight squeeze for the eight men it apparently housed - and although the tall watchtower was an impressive structure, it had fast begun to lose its appeal after an hour of complete inactivity. Merlin wondered how the soldiers entertained themselves in such an isolated place. Beyond a few benches that circled the crackling campfire, the clearing was bare. The men were stationed here for weeks at a time – how did they keep from going mad? They were fenced in on all sides by the dark, whispering forest, with nobody but each other for company. And when they weren't diligently guarding this dreary outpost, they were patrolling the same three-mile stretch of road day after day, riding to the east and to the west of the encampment. Did the monotony of it all not drive them to despair? What did they _do_ every day when the patrolling soldiers returned and there were no other duties to perform?

Well...practise archery, apparently.

The burly knight in command of the outpost, Sir Dorogaen, was clearly an expert archer. Bows were rarely used or carried by the knights of Camelot, who swore their oath by the sword alone, or so it seemed. Arthur himself preferred the crossbow on the few occasions that he had time to go hunting. However, Merlin could see that it was Dorogaen's favoured weapon. With his broad shoulders and significant height advantage, he had always assumed that the older man was a natural swordsman, but his skill with a bow was undeniable. Again and again without fail, all three of his arrows would strike the centre ring, barely a hair's breadth between them.

Arthur, on the other hand, had performed well below his usual standard; this was no doubt beginning to irk him. He was unaccustomed to failure. And to make matters worse, it was clear that the other knights were going easy on him – something Arthur loathed with every fibre of his being. He would feel cheated, betrayed, frustrated, molly-coddled; Merlin knew was in for a hard time later. He would need to send word to the kitchens when they returned and ask the servants to send up a plate of sweet rolls. Although perhaps Arthur would be too weary to throw a tirade by the time they returned to the city? In truth, he was surprised that the prince even had the strength to draw back the bowstring. He looked thoroughly worn out, his face drawn and haggard.

"Stubborn cabbage-head," Merlin muttered, stabbing at the snowy ground with a twig and occasionally raising his head to shoot irritated glares at his oblivious master. "If he makes himself ill, it'll only be what he deserves." But again and again, his gaze would flicker up to watch the prince, a crease forming between his eyes as the man's posture seemed to droop with every arrow he strung.

With a sudden frightened whinny, Cabal's head shot up, ears flat back. Startled by the sound, Merlin shot to his feet. He glanced around the clearing, searching for the source of the horse's distress, but found nothing to cause alarm. Stepping closer to the tethered mount, he raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"Easy," he murmured, reaching up to stroke the quivering flanks. "It's alright."

"Merlin?"

He glanced over his shoulder to find the knights who had accompanied him from Camelot watching him warily – all save Sir Hugh, who was busying himself sharpening the tip of an arrow on his whetstone, and Arthur, who was using the others' distraction to rub at the headache that was clearly building in his temples.

"It's nothing," Merlin called back, raising a hand in an apology. "Probably just a squirrel."

The horse seemed to settle after a few minutes, and Merlin was about to regain his seat when Cabal reared back with a grunt, dancing from foot to foot. The other steeds shifted uneasily behind him, ears twitching back, raising their heads from the trough of hay to gaze searchingly into the trees. Then Merlin felt it; something brushing against his mind, feather-light at first and then stronger, sharper. He stilled, his hand moving to rest cautiously on the hilt of the sword that Arthur now insisted he carry with him when they travelled beyond the city walls. He peered into forest, calming his mind and searching for the presence that had briefly reached out to him. The creaking trees grew still and silent. The air seemed to thicken. In the darkness of the shadowed boughs, something _moved_.

He could feel it, a living darkness of such power and malice that he felt smothered by its presence. Dread washed over him, cold and sickening, curling about his chest so that every breath seemed laboured as his heart began beating a rapid tattoo against his ribcage. Fingers tingling, he stumbled back a few paces from the tree-line, tearing his gaze away from the moving shadow for only the briefest of moments.

"Arthur!"

At the warning note in his voice, the assembled knights turned to look at him. Arthur's expression of annoyance changed in an instant, his eyes widening in alarm. His arm shot out, palm-outwards, as though that alone could push his manservant out of the way.

"Merlin, get back!"

The hoarse cry came a split second before something large and heavy crashed into Merlin from behind, sending him sprawling face-first into the snow. A solid weight settled just below the nape of his neck, and he heard a tearing sound as the creature's claws began to rip through his winter cloak and the thin tunic beneath. Moments later, a burning pain lanced down between his shoulder blades, hot and searing. He raised his head from the smothering snow, spluttering and gasping as he frantically tried to twist out from underneath the beast, but the solid _something _that was pressing against his lower back seemed unaffected by his struggles.

Hot, foul breath wafted around him and he nearly gagged at the stench. A guttural growl sounded from above, fierce and feral, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sharp teeth to sink into his flesh…

_-tbc-_

* * *

_**Yes, I'm evil. I am aware of this. *cackles***  
_

_**Will Merlin find himself evil-creature-chow? Well, of course he won't, or this would end up being a very short story. But how badly will he be injured? And will Arthur finally admit to being sick? (Highly unlikely, being a Pendragon.)**_

_**Also, thoughts on Sir Hugh and Sir Gildor? I'm always a little concerned that my OCs don't have enough substance to make them 3D, so let me know your opinions. Realistic? Wooden? And yes, you're allowed to hate Sir Hugh. I certainly do. And you'll hate him even more before the story's through.**_

_**I'll see you again next Sunday!**_

_**xxx**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A whole week late! I'm sorry, readers. I had an exam this week and, being my degree year, I felt I needed to give it my all. Rest assured that further updates should hopefully be on time!**_

_**You also have my word that I won't reveal any Merlin spoilers in my author's notes (despite the pressing urge to verbally flail and write half a book about the first episodes). I'm aware that some readers may not have had a chance to watch it yet. So I'll be good. Mostly.**_

_**Thank you all for your continuing support enthusiasm, it was great to hear from you. And to all the new story followers - welcome! I hope you continue to enjoy it. **_

_**Also, I won't apologise at all for the excessive amounts of bromance in this story. It didn't start out that way, but you can bet your bottom dollar that's where it's heading. Too many feels! Deal with it. :P**_

* * *

_Hot, foul breath wafted around him and he nearly gagged at the stench. A guttural growl sounded from above, fierce and feral, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the cruel bite of sharp teeth sinking into his flesh…_

_Thunk._

With a high-pitched, canine yelp, the weight pressing down on him vanished. Somehow coaxing his frozen limbs into action, he scrabbled forwards in the snow, stumbling to his feet as he fumbled with the hilt of sword and spun around to face the creature. He almost lost his footing for a second time at the sight that met him.

With hackles raised, the wolf – if such a creature could truly be likened to any species – watched him with wild, yellow eyes. The beast was massive; at least three times the size of a normal wolf, with a broader body and snout and paws the size of dinner-plates. Its dark fur was matted in places, dirt and gore encrusting the course black hair, and blood dripped steadily from the arrow shaft that had embedded itself in the creature's shoulder, scarlet dots blooming in the light blanket of snow beneath. It was crouched low, readying for another pounce, its long, white canines bared in a snarl as it growled at him ferociously. Merlin's gloved hands tightened on the hilt of his sword, even as he took another stumbling pace backwards, trying to distance himself from the beast.

"Merlin, down!"

He obeyed Sir Gildor's barked command without question, dropping immediately to the ground as his sword flew from his hand some distance to the right, snow blinding him for the second time in what was turning out to be a truly awful day. He _felt_ rather than saw the volley of arrows fly over him, but their impact and the pained howls that followed painted a clear enough picture. Barely a second's pause, and another arrow was loosened, only this time the rapid _whoosh-thud_ left silence in its wake.

Merlin lay still for a moment, holding his breath, stretching out to feel for the presence that had threatened to smother his senses only moments before. The darkness was still there, a lingering shadow at the edge of his awareness, but the power and malice behind it was gone. Relief flooded through him and he gave into it with a shaky exhale, hearing the _crunch_ of booted feet in the snow and the chinking of chainmail as the knights hurried towards him.

He made a half-hearted attempt to push himself up, only to suck in a shallow, shocked breath as his wounded back flared to life in a wave of hot, sharp pain. He stayed on his hands and knees, the forest swirling around him and his ears ringing.

Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders and under his arms, hauling him upright. He stared stupidly into Arthur's flushed face, trying to regain his sense of balance, feeling more than a little disorientated. He was thankful for the blond man's steadying grip on his upper arms, because his legs seemed unwilling to support him as of yet, and without it he probably would have ended up face-first in the snow again.

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was hoarse, his tone a hairsbreadth shy of anxious.

"Nnn," was all the warlock managed at first, and his brow creased at his tongue's temporary paralysis. He shook himself a little, bringing his surroundings back into focus, and took a deep, calming breath. "I...I'm alright."

Arthur appeared unconvinced. He shared a look with Lancelot, who was standing a little to the side and supporting Merlin with a steadying grip on his shoulder. The warlock was about to insist again that he was unharmed when he suddenly found himself facing Lancelot instead, having been turned to the side by Arthur so that the prince could inspect his back. Merlin heard him inhale through his teeth, a sharp, sympathetic hiss for whatever damage he had encountered, and the warlock winced. Apparently the wound was as bad as it felt.

The hands on his shoulders squeezed gently, and he lifted his gaze to meet Lancelot's. The young knight's eyes had darkened with concern, but his smile was familiar and gently teasing. "We leave you alone for thirty minutes and you almost get yourself eaten by yet another mythical creature," he remarked lightly, falsely chiding. "This is fast becoming a habit, Merlin."

He returned the smile, albeit somewhat strained. "Well, I'm not one to shun tradition."

Gwaine appeared beside them, grinning with his usual enthusiasm despite the events that had just transpired, and clapped Merlin lightly on his upper arm. "We ought to ask Percival to carry you around. The man's a walking pillar of good fortune, no ill ever seems to befalls him."

"Unlike Leon," Elyan interjected, shooting Merlin a smile as he and Percival led the frightened horses across the clearing to tether them further away from the beast's carcass, "who's clearly been cursed by the gods to suffer through every near-death experience imaginable."

"I despise you both," the older knight informed them flatly, moving from the wolf's body to retrieve Merlin's sword where it lay discarded in the snow. He approached the warlock, re-sheathing the blade for him in the empty scabbard that hung at his side before patting his shoulder in a reassuring sort of gesture and moving back to assist the younger knights in re-tethering the horses.

Gentle, probing fingers suddenly began to push aside the tatters of his cloak and Merlin hissed as cold air hit his wounds, fighting the urge to shy away from the touch.  
"Arthur, don't, it's nothing."

Except Arthur was back in front of him now, looking grim but trying his utmost best to hide it - as though he ever could, his eyes gave everything away and Merlin knew him far too well.  
_"_Of course it's nothing," the prince agreed easily, but with that same neutral, calming tone that Merlin had heard him use countless times before when sitting at the bedside of a fatally injured knight. With that in mind, his words were anything but comforting.

"Just a scratch," Gwaine confirmed after leaning around Merlin's side to take a peek at it himself. His smile, if anything, stretched even wider. "You'll live to be mauled to pieces another day, Merlin."

The probing fingers returned to his back and he grunted, grimacing, and likely would have twisted away had it not been for Arthur's steadying grip on his forearm and the weight of Lancelot's hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, lad," came Sir Gildor's soothing rumble from behind him. "Let me see the damage." The knight eyed the torn skin beneath the bloodstained cloth and exhaled a grim sigh. "We'll need get these cleaned up a little before we head back to Camelot. Although the wounds could easily have been a great deal more serious; you were fortunate the beast's claws didn't gouge right down to the bone, given its strength."

Merlin shuddered a little at the thought. Mistaking the tremor as sign that his manservant was growing cold, Arthur steered him over to the log-benches that served as seats around the camp fire, which Gwaine was quickly coaxing back to life.

Although there was a good eight metres between himself and the wolf's carcass, it turned Merlin's stomach to look at it, that sense of _wrong_ ringing in every fibre of his being. There was something about the beast that felt unnatural. _Evil_. And not just because it had tried to take a chunk out of him.

"I've never seen a creature like it," Sir Gildor commented as he put water on to boil over the crackling fire. "It must have come from deep within these cursed forests. Winter starvation often drives animals from their natural hunting grounds."

"Although you can hardly say the beast looks emaciated," Percival pointed out, returning with Elyan to take a seat on the log nearest Merlin. "And there ought to be plenty of game in these woods; only the knights who guard the perimeter hunt so close to the shadowlands."

At Merlin's side, Arthur nodded, his countenance grave. "Dorogaen, you know the Darkening Woods better than any man. Have you ever come across a creature in its likeness?"

The greying knight shook his head, kneeling at the beast's side to inspect it more closely. "Not in person, Sire. But in tales of old, there were rumours of monstrous black wolves who roamed the northern plains by night, servants of the Great Sorcerer." He pulled his arrow - clearly this was the blow that had felled the beast once and for all - from the wolf's eye socket with a sharp tug, wiping the tip on the matted fur. "But they are thought to be creatures of myth and legend. And if this is truly a black wolf, the tales do not do it justice."

Merlin stored the information away for later. Gaius would know if such animals had truly existed. That the wolves were rumoured to have once been servants to the ancient dark sorcerer who had cast the eternal curse upon the Darkening Woods over a century ago _did_ make sense. It certainly explained the magical presence that had brushed its icy fingers against him the moment the wolf had approached. Regardless of the creature's origin, he knew the forces of dark magic had played some part in its existence.

"Here." A wineskin was pressed into his hands, startling him from his thoughts, and he glanced up to find Leon looking down at him with a soft smile. The knight patted his shoulder again, careful not to jostle him, before moving past him to take a seat beside Elyan on the adjoining bench. He glanced back and dipped his head to indicate the untouched wine. "Drink, Merlin. You look half-frozen; it'll help warm your bones."

Merlin could almost _feel_ Sir Hugh's glare boring into him from the other side of the fire as he drank, and pointedly averted his gaze. He was cold, his back ached, and he'd almost been eaten alive by a wolf. He felt he'd earned the right to give Sir Hugh the cold shoulder. The other man's jealousy was clear to him without the need for a second glance. Arthur and the rest of their riding party had seated themselves along the two benches closest to Merlin, with Arthur and Lancelot sitting either side of him; in contrast, Sir Hugh sat alone on the opposite side of the camp fire, running a whetstone along the edge of his sword. And by the gods, wasn't it sharp enough already? Or was the action intended to intimidate him? Either way, Merlin couldn't care less.

_Narcissistic ass._

Instead, he focused his attention on Arthur. The prince's gaze was fixed on the nearby carcass, but his eyes were glassy and the dark rings beneath them looked even more prominent at close range. His posture was slumped, his forearms resting on his thighs while his hands hung loose between his knees. His skin was a shade paler than normal, save for the light flush sitting high in his cheekbones, evidence of his fever. Merlin was momentarily tempted to exaggerate his own discomfort so that Arthur might return to the city ahead of schedule. Being exposed to the elements like this was doing nothing for his condition.

The prince finally seemed to sense Merlin's eyes on him and he blinked, his gaze shifting sideways to meet his manservant's. Arthur's brow twitched, a flicker of concern passing over his features before he banished it, instead opting for a casual, disinterested upward twitch of his lips.  
"Still alive, then?"

"Just about," Merlin replied without a pause, taking another gulp of wine and watching as Sir Gildor tipped the boiling water into a bowl that one of Dorogaen's knights had fetched for him. "This isn't exactly how I pictured things turning out when you told me we'd be riding out here for some 'fun'."

"We'll return to Camelot as soon as your wounds are bandaged," Arthur promised him, and Merlin refrained from cheering aloud through sheer force of will. And also because the prince's voice had cracked on the last word, and when he cleared his throat it was with a poorly disguised wince. Merlin's concern increased tenfold.

"You ought to rest when we return," he suggested softly, his voice pitched low enough so that the likes of Sir Hugh were out of earshot. "You look tired."

"Nonsense," the prince answered, but the protest lacked any of its usual heat. "The day's barely begun, and I'll need to meet with the council to discuss what's happened. But yes, Merlin, you can take the rest of the day off."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest that he hadn't been asking for his own sake, but cut off with a pained hiss when the back of his tunic was lifted up to his shoulders and a hot, damp cloth was pressed against the torn skin there.

"Sorry, lad," Gildor murmured from where he knelt behind him. "I often find that anticipation is the worst part; I thought it best to get it over with."

Merlin nodded tightly, gritting his teeth and staring at the dancing flames of the fire, breathing slowly through his nose and trying not to openly flinch at every swipe of the hot cloth. He sensed Lancelot inching closer to his left side, and the weight of a gloved hand came to rest on his knee; steadying, reassuring.

Merlin's gaze flickered up from the fire in time to see the other knights sharing a look between them, and suddenly, without the need for further prompting, Gwaine launched into a an enthusiastic account of one of their previous adventures, with Elyan, Percival and Leon offering their own comments and teasing remarks whenever the knight paused for breath.

Merlin was grateful for the distraction - because _fie_, his back didn't half hurt - and between hearing the tale about the barmaid Gwaine had once mistaken for Sir Leon, and grinning at Percival's obvious embarrassment over the time he'd been fed a love potion and had fallen head-over-heels for the witch's horse, it wasn't long before Sir Gildor was tugging his tunic back down to cover the bandages and Lancelot was fastening the cloak back around his neck. He wanted to protest that he was capable of doing the latter by himself, but it actually felt rather nice to be fussed over. That, and his hands were awfully stiff from keeping them clenched for so long.

At his side, Arthur seemed to stir from the open-eyed slumber he'd drifted off into, blinking rapidly for a moment before turning his head to scrutinise Merlin. He glanced to where Sir Gildor was disposing of the bloodied water and straightened imperceptibly, patting Merlin's arm before standing to his feet. He shifted for a moment, and while the action looked innocent enough Merlin could tell from the quick repositioning of his feet that Arthur had been hit by another wave of dizziness. The urge to yank him back down to sit on the bench again was difficult to ignore, but the two of them weren't alone out here, and Merlin knew not to cross the line with so many unfamiliar knights in their company. Even the most understanding of noblemen could only tolerate so much forwardness from a manservant.

"We must-" Arthur began, then broke off abruptly to turn his head and cough wetly into the crook of his elbow. The knights feigned disinterest, but Merlin didn't miss the meaningful glances they shared between them when Arthur wasn't looking.

"We must return to inform the council of what has transpired," Arthur continued, his voice clearly hoarser than usual but loud enough to carry across to Dorogaen's knights, who stood guard along the edge of the clearing. "Messengers will need be dispatched to nearby villages to warn them in case this proves to be the first of a series of attacks."

"And what if there are others in the woods nearby?" asked a young auburn-haired knight with whom Merlin was unacquainted, the youth's arrow still notched on his bowstring as he stood vigil over the beast's unmoving form. "Wolves are pack-hunters, are they not? And although there are a number of us here to protect the outpost, could we truly hold our position against a score of these creatures?"

"We cannot even say for certain that there _are_ other creatures in its likeness," Sir Hugh argued imperiously, glancing along the length of his sword before pocketing his whetstone. "Perhaps it was the last of its kind."

"No, Erynn is right," Arthur intervened, arms folded over his chest and brow knitted in a grave expression, his eyes distant as he contemplated the issue. "We should use all measure of caution. Dorogaen, I want you to double your defences tonight. Post two men in the watchtower. If the wolves outnumber you, light the beacon and barricade yourselves in the cabin until aid arrives."

"Yes, Sire." Sir Dorogaen dipped his head once to acknowledge his orders. Then he gestured towards the felled wolf with the point of the arrow he still held. "And what of the carcass?"

Arthur glanced towards it, and Merlin wondered if the prince realised that he had automatically moved to put himself between the beast and his manservant. But his voice when he next spoke was flat, empty of any emotion that may have betrayed the answer.  
"Burn it."

Merlin stood with a wince, brushing down the front of his tunic and tugging his gloves back on. He followed Arthur as the prince moved with sure strides across the clearing towards where Cabal and Morholt had been tethered to the same tree a little distance from the other mounts. Mainly because Ailith, Lancelot's intelligent grey mare, was inclined to kick them if they strayed too near. And with good reason, it seemed. Cabal had already chewed two-thirds of the way through the rope that tethered him.

_Bloody horse._

He untied the rebellious mount and handed the reins to Arthur, resting a hand on the horse's neck as he watched him in silence for a moment. Pausing with his left foot in the stirrup, the prince held his gaze briefly, his eyes searching. "Are you certain you're fit to ride?"

Merlin nodded, even though he was rather dreading the journey back, especially given Morholt's uneven gait. "I've had worse," he replied, his smile more of a wince as his back continued to burn. "Although I think I'll be sleeping on my front for a while."

Arthur held his gaze a moment longer, doubt clear in his expression, before he swung himself up into the saddle, patting Cabal's neck when the horse shifted uneasily beneath him. He glanced over to where the others were preparing to mount their own steeds.  
"Percival?"

The tall, burly knight appeared at their future king's side a moment later. "Sire?"

Arthur nodded towards Merlin, who had paused in lowering the left stirrup on Morholt's saddle to glance at the prince curiously. "Be mindful of his back; Gaius will already be after my hide for landing him in danger again."

Merlin opened his mouth to ask Arthur what he meant, only to yelp in surprise when large, strong and surprisingly gentle hands lifted him up by the waist and settled him in the saddle. As though he were some helpless _maiden_ with impractical skirts. Percival grinned up at him cheerfully, sliding Merlin's booted foot into the stirrup and giving his leg a consoling pat before disappearing again to mount his own horse, and all before the manservant could even think about forming a coherent protest.

"Rendered speechless?" Arthur commented at his side, his tone amused. "I ought to have Percival manhandle you more often, Merlin."

The other knights chuckled and Merlin was glad his cheeks were already rosy from the cold, because the flush that crept up into his face would have made the situation even more embarrassing. He was half tempted to tell the lot of them that he'd flown on the back of a _dragon_, thank you very much, and wasn't some delicate waif who needed coddling. But he doubted it would have helped, and there was also the issue of magical secrecy to bear in mind.

"You might want to remember that I'm the one who brings you all your meals," he threatened instead, only half-jokingly. "I could easily put salt on your strawberries or sugar in your stew, _Sire_."

Arthur shot him a knowing look, the smirk still in place. "Only if you wanted to lose your job, Merlin."

He feigned a thoughtful look, then shook his head. "I'm still failing to see the downside here."

The prince snorted, only to cough a moment later when it ignited a tickle in his throat. He turned his head again, leaning forward a little with the sheer force of the bout of coughing, and Merlin glanced across his bowed shoulders to meet Leon's gaze. The knight's brow was tight with concern and, although they were doing their best to look anywhere except the prince, Merlin could tell that the others were wearing similar expressions.

With a final spluttering cough - a grating, choking sort of sound that made Merlin wince - Arthur straightened in the saddle and swiped a sleeve across his watering eyes. The two pink ovals in his cheeks had flushed a rosier hue now, and perspiration had darkened his fringe, making it cling to his brow. Wordlessly, Merlin passed him the water-skin hanging from Morholt's saddle, watching as Arthur drank deeply to ease the obvious rawness in his throat.

"Come on," the prince said at last, handing the water back to him and gathering up the reins in one hand. "We need to get you back to Gaius. With any luck you won't need stitches, but I'm not taking any chances." He pinched the bridge of his nose and released a sharp, weary sigh, closing his eyes briefly. "The sooner we return, the better."

Merlin couldn't agree more.

* * *

_**Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter. The next update will probably be posted a week on Tuesday, as I'll be away over the weekend when I'd normally try and post it. I'll miss out on the new Merlin episode! *le gasp***_

_**As always, your feedback is lovely and very much appreciated, but not a necessary requirement. And feel free to PM me if you want to ask questions, request scenes/themes or just generally want to squee over any of my multiple fandoms.**_

_**Furthermore, for those among my readers who are Avengers fans, I'll be writing a multi-chaptered fic during November that centres around the Superhusbands/Superfamily category. Keep your eyes peeled! :)**_

_**Have a lovely week, folks! **_

_**I.G xxx**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hi folks!**_

_**Sorry this chapter is so very late, I've had a rough couple of months and had to set writing aside for a while. I'm really grateful for the kindness and support you've shown me through emails and PMs, and I hope to get right back on track with regular updates now that things have settled down a little. **_

_**Let us grieve together, shipmates, for the events that transpired during the series finale last week. But let's all try to remember that their time together wasn't brief - the 5 series spanned at least 7 years, and Merlin grew from a boy into a man; Arthur from a Prince into a King. All those years of friendship and brotherhood and shared experiences are still waiting to be explored.**_

_**And so, rather than focusing on Arthur's passing, I'm choosing to rewind my headcanon back a year or so and revel in the adventures that are yet to come.**_  
_**Join me?**_

_**Warning: There is an excessive amount of bromance and hurt/comfort to come. No, I am not sorry. **_

* * *

The journey home had been torturous.

Merlin's back throbbed with a deep, burning ache that would not abate. Having been little more than a stinging inconvenience for the first leg of the journey, it had flared quite suddenly into something unimaginably painful, as though the gods had taken a flaming torch to his skin. It had stolen the breath from his lungs at first, and the momentary disorientation would have unsaddled him from his mount if not for Lancelot's timely arrival. The young knight had pulled up quickly alongside him and braced a hand against his shoulder to push him upright again.

The pain had dulled somewhat, albeit temporarily, and Merlin had managed to convince Lancelot that it had been nothing more than a momentary twinge of pain. None of the other knights had voiced their concerns, but Merlin did notice that Elyan and Percival chose to rein in their horses to flank his own and ride in closer formation thereafter.

Now, as the riding party neared the outer walls of the lower city, the painful throbbing in his back was beginning to worsen again. The fabric of the bandages created an unbearable friction against his wounds as his upper body moved with Morholt's bounding canter, and his hands were clenched so tightly about the reins that he had all but lost sensation in his gloved fingers.

They slowed their mounts to a brisk walk as they made their way through the streets of the lower town, and Merlin clenched his teeth together in an effort to keep the pain from his showing as the townsfolk paused in their daily activities to call out courteous greetings and welcome their prince home. Arthur, too, had straightened from his somewhat slouched position in the saddle, and Merlin saw him turning with a strained smile to wave to a child no older than six or seven, the girl having scurried from the warmth of her home to stand on the lower rung of the blacksmith's fence and watch the procession as it moved by.

At long last, they passed through the grand stone archway of the castle grounds and into the courtyard, where the bright midday sun had begun to melt the blanket of snow, creating a semi-transparent mush that sloshed wetly underfoot. Merlin heaved a weary, ragged sigh of relief as Morholt came to a stop behind Arthur's mount, although the hot ache in his back failed to lessen despite the lack of motion. His unsteady breathing steamed the winter air in short, sharp pants, although he no longer felt the cold himself. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Merlin?"

He blinked, stirring from a stupor he hadn't remembered falling into, and found that most of their riding party had already dismounted. Lancelot's hand was resting on his lower leg, the knight's brow creased faintly as he studied him.

"Sorry." He winced as he shifted a little in the saddle. The hot ache had spread along his arms and down his thighs, fierce and bone-deep, and he suddenly longed for his bed. He forced a smile, trying to shrug off his friend's concern. "I was miles away."

Transferring the reins into his left hand, he leaned forwards to dismount, only for the pain to quadruple at the sudden motion. A low, poorly muffled grunt escaped through gritted teeth, sounding overly loud in the relative silence of the courtyard.

Percival appeared to his left half a second later, and Merlin found he couldn't even summon the strength to protest as the knight effortlessly eased him down from the saddle. His legs then decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to mimic overripe celery, and Merlin was torn between relief (because he didn't fancy landing face-first in the melting snow) and embarrassment when those wobbly limbs sent him careening straight into Sir Gildor's chest.

The older man caught him with lightening-quick reflexes that belied his years.  
"Easy, lad," he soothed, as several more pairs of hands shot out to steady the stumbling manservant. "Take a moment to get your bearings."

"Merlin?" Arthur appeared at his side, eyes still glassy with fever, but his attention focused solely on his manservant. His hand closed lightly, supportingly, around Merlin's upper arm.  
"What is it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, m'alright," the young sorcerer assured the gathered knights, although the words were strained, breathless, as the pain in his back continued to worsen with each passing minute.

Arthur's expression hardened a little, his grip tightening fractionally. "_Merlin_."

"No, it's just...it _hurts_," Merlin relented, meeting Arthur's gaze briefly.

He half expected a gentle, teasing quip about having a low pain threshold. _"Don't be such a girl, Merlin"_ would likely have been the favoured phrase. It had been said so frequently over the past few years that it had almost become a tradition. The sentiment had ceased to be genuine long ago, and both men knew it. It was a casual jest between them; Arthur's retaliative weapon of choice to Merlin's oft-used '_clotpole_'._  
_

But no such remarks were spoken this time. Arthur's brow creased a little, the worry growing in his eyes in a way that made Merlin want to take back his admission and feign nonchalance a little while longer. Arthur had enough on his plate already, what with this new threat to Camelot and his own worsening health. He didn't need to be further burdened by his concern for Merlin.

"We need to get you to Gaius," the prince said, his voice low and hoarse, but calming. "Can you walk?"

Merlin opened his mouth to protest that yes, thank you, his legs were still perfectly fine (he was lying through his teeth, but he wasn't about let Percival carry him through the castle corridors, not unless he was legitimately dying - the other servants would be gossiping about it for weeks), but another voice interrupted him before the words left his lips.

"Sire, you _must_ assemble the council with all haste," Sir Hugh spoke from where he stood at the door of the castle, his tone dripping respect like a wet rag. "I've sent word Lord Aggravaine, he will be arriving at council chambers presently."

Arthur's eyes narrowed for a split second at the interruption, but his features smoothed over quickly. "Thank you, Sir Hugh. I'll join you there as soon as Merlin's been seen to."

Over Arthur's shoulder, Merlin saw the knight descend a few steps, his tone indignant. "But Sire, surely the safety of the kingdom should be placed above..."  
He gestured vaguely towards Merlin.

"The safety of the kingdom will not suffer due to _my_ tardiness," Arthur replied firmly, half-turning to look at the man, his expression hard. "And do not presume to lecture me on matters of state. You forget your place."

Sir Hugh's expression froze for a moment, his right hand curling into a loose fist, before his posture relaxed again and he dipped forward in a shallow bow to acknowledge the rebuke. "Forgive me, Sire, I spoke out of turn. I will assemble the council in your absence."

And with that, he turned on his heel, red cloak billowing as he strode back up the steps and out of sight.

Merlin, surprised by Arthur's sudden and uncharacteristic burst of anger, placed a hand over the one that still gently gripped his arm. It wasn't until Arthur turned back to face him, breathing a little unsteadily, cheeks tinged pink and posture drooping visibly, that the prince's short temper suddenly made sense. Clearly Arthur's condition was deteriorating fast.

"You should go," he insisted, keeping his voice as steady as he could despite the pain in his back. "Sir Hugh's right; you _do_ need to meet with the council." He lowered his voice a little so that the other knights couldn't overhear. "And you need to rest. Please, Arthur; you look like death warmed over."

"You're one to talk," Arthur countered, but his words lacked their usual bite. He glanced back towards the castle doors, clearly knowing that his duty lay within, and heaved a sigh. "Gildor, Leon, Elyan; accompany me to the council chambers, if you will."

He then turned to glance between Percival and Lancelot, but hesitated, the question on his lips.

"We'll see that he gets to Gaius in one piece " Lancelot assured him, stepping closer to the prince's side when Elyan and Gildor moved away.

"Can't make any promises, though," Gwaine quipped with his usual grin, handing the horses' reins over to the waiting stablehands. "Merlin's about as accident-prone as they come."

Arthur ignored the bearded knight's teasing remarks in favour of focusing his attention on the other two knights. "You'll notify me if anything happens?"

Percival inclined his head. "As soon as we can."

"I'm still here, you know," Merlin mumbled, blinking to clear the increasing fuzziness from his vision.

"Good." Arthur shifted his gaze back to the younger man, levelling him with a _look_. "See that you stay that way until I get back."

The prince's hand tightened on his arm briefly, a parting squeeze, then with a significant nod at the remaining trio of knights he turned and made his way up the castle steps. Although he didn't stumble, his gait was slower than usual, and four sets of worried eyes followed his progress until he disappeared through the doors of the castle.

"Come on," Gwaine spoke after a moment's pause, gently grasping Merlin's arm where Arthur's hand had been moments before. "Let's get you to Gaius."

Merlin nodded slowly and dragged a hand down his face, his eyelids strangely heavy. The air had grown thick, his breathing shallow in response to the growing pain in his back. His legs were being uncooperative again, his first step so shaky that his knees gave way, and he was saved from an unpleasantly wet landing by Percival's thick, solid arm catching him across his chest.

"I somehow get the feeling that you're not going to make it up two flights of stairs on your own," Gwaine said, his tone unusually grave as he helped Merlin to stand. "Maybe Percival ought to-"

"No," the warlock ground out through gritted teeth, even though the world had begun to spin and the white-hot agony in his back was making him feel downright nauseous. "I just need a minute..."

"Merlin, you're hurt." Lancelot reasoned gently, his gloveless hand settling on the nape of Merlin's neck, the touch familiar and soothingly cool, only to vanish again a moment later. "Gods, your skin's on fire!"

Now _that_ he could believe. And he couldn't help but think that lying in the cold snow suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

This, in fact, was the very last thought that passed through his mind before the world turned over on its side and everything became a little too fast and a little too foggy to keep up with. He was vaguely aware of hands and voices and _Lancelot- _and _fie,_ his back didn't half hurt - and he thought, perhaps, that he was being carried somewhere, but he wasn't too bothered by it as long as things remained blurred like this, because the flames scorched him less from behind the foggy screen and he liked it much better that way.

Then the fire burned brighter, and even the fog couldn't keep it at bay, and awareness returned for a brief, torturous period wherein his stomach lost its contents and he strained against the hands that held him to try and distance himself from the heat of the flames. The hard rim of a horn-cup was suddenly being forced between his teeth, and Gaius's voice made it through the babbling din.

"Merlin, it's alright. Just swallow this down, that's it."

The liquid was bitter on his tongue, but Gaius's was a voice he trusted and he clung to the words like a drowning man, forcing his throat to work. And when the darkness swam up to greet him shortly thereafter, he surrendered himself to it gladly, leaving the fire behind.

o~O~o

He awoke to the familiar smell of herbs and honey, a scent that reassured him he was safe long before he opened his eyes to blink groggily in the dim light of the room. He could hear low, deep voices talking nearby, but he couldn't place them, the tendrils of sleep still clinging to him. He was laying in Gaius's bed, stretched out on his front with a blanket tucked around him, the pillow beneath his cheek soft and warm.

Something was missing, something other than his tunic, and it took a long moment for him to realise that the pain in his back had completely vanished. He shifted a little, anticipating the movement to reignite the fire in his wounds, and was pleasantly surprised when he only felt the gentle, slightly itchy brush of the blanket against his bare skin.

"Merlin?"

The low murmur of voices stopped abruptly, and there was a scuffling sound and the creaking of wooden chairs before booted feet hurried towards him. Lancelot came into view, the knight dropping into a crouch at the bedside, his face pinched in concern.

"How are you feeling?"

Taking a moment to swallow, his throat dry and a bitter sort of taste still clinging to his tongue, Merlin pulled a face. "Like I've been drugged," he replied honestly, rolling carefully onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. "What happened?"

"Bit of an odd story, that," Percival said, dragging his a stool over to the bedside and dropping down onto it. He handed Merlin a cup of something hot and sweet-smelling. "To tell you the truth, we're not really sure."

"Well, that's reassuring," the younger man mumbled, taking a sip of the warmed, sweetened wine.

Lancelot stood to retrieve his own chair, an easy smile back in place, although the faintest shadow of concern still remained behind his eyes, only visible to those who knew him well.  
"How much do you remember?" he asked curiously.

Merlin gave a half-shrug, moving to sit up cross-legged in bed, the blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He wrapped it closer about himself to stave off the cold, grateful for the fire that crackled merrily in the nearby hearth.  
"Not much after we arrived in the courtyard. Arthur and the others left to meet with the council, then everything goes a bit fuzzy after that." He rolled his shoulders experimentally, still curious as to why his wounds weren't bothering him in the slightest. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Only a few hours," Percival told him, eyeing the way Merlin was shifting with a wary sort of expression. "Is your back bothering you?"

"Hm? No, it's fine. Which is...odd. What did Gaius put on the scratches? Whatever it is, it's working like magic." He didn't miss Lancelot's visible wince at the words, nor the brief look he and Percival shared. Unease began to gnaw in the pit of his stomach, and he swallowed thickly. "What?"

Lancelot shifted his chair closer to the bedside so that his knees were touching the edge of the mattress. "The scratches aren't there any more, Merlin."

"What?" he asked again, this time disbelievingly.

"They, uh...they disappeared about an hour ago," Percival explained, his words hesitant.

"Your fever kept rising," Lancelot went on calmly. "The wounds looked hot and inflamed, and the skin turned red. Gaius couldn't explain it. But then they seemed to close over, and your fever vanished, and it was as though nothing had ever happened. It left us all a bit baffled."

Merlin was torn between relief (at the lack of pain) and horror (because _gods_, this wasn't normal). Had he unwittingly used magic to heal himself? That had certainly never happened before. And what would Arthur say when he found out? Oh, fie.

"Gaius went to the castle archives in search of information about the beast that attacked you," Lancelot continued. "But he said the black wolves were known to be creatures of a dark and powerful magic. So perhaps your wounds faded because we killed the wolf who inflicted them?"

The other knight nodded, clearly seeing this as the logical answer, and Merlin relaxed a bit. Maybe his secret was still safe. He might never know what had really happened, but for now Lancelot's explanation fit its purpose, and he wasn't about to plant the seed of doubt in anyone's mind.

"What about Arthur?" he asked after a moment of thought, glancing between the two men. "Has anyone told him about...you know."

"He was here a little while ago," Percival replied. "He came as soon as the council adjourned, but a messenger from the boarder outpost arrived not half an hour ago, so he and Gwaine went to meet them."

"A messenger from the outpost?" Merlin parroted, his brow furrowing. "Did something else happen?"

Lancelot gave a mild shrug. "We're not sure. We stayed here to make sure you- What are you doing?"

"I need to check on Arthur." Merlin shivered in the cool air of the room as he moved bare-foot across the cold floor and ducked quickly into his own bedroom to grab a fresh tunic and socks.

"Merlin," his friend placated, his tone gentle but with a hint of command in it as he followed after the warlock. "You need to rest."

"Nah, I'm fine." The younger man threw a reassuring smile over his shoulder as he pulled on his jacket. It still sported three vertical tears where the wolf's claws had gouged deep, but there wasn't time to mend it now.

Percival poked his head into the room, needing to stoop in the low doorway. "Is he being unreasonable, Lance?"

Lancelot crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "Yes, as expected."

"Need me to sit on him?"

"Oh, it's tempting."

Merlin pulled a face at their teasing, hiding a smile as he hopped about to pull on his boots. "I'll tell Gaius."

"He'd take our side," Lancelot countered, even as helped Merlin don his neckerchief. Fiddling with it, he sighed and levelled the younger man with a searching look. "You'll tell me if you start to feel unwell?"

Merlin summoned his most winning smile, knowing that the battle was won. "Absolutely."

Percival feigned genuine disappointment as he stepped back into the main chamber to allow Merlin to pass. "Does this mean I don't get to sit on you?"

The young sorcerer headed towards the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "You can sit on Lancelot, if you like," he offered cheerfully.

The burly knight grinned conspiratorially and turned to his comrade. As Merlin began to descend the spiralling staircase, there came an indignant squawk, the echoing _thud _of a something rather heavy crashing into the bed, and the hearty sound of Percival's rumbling laughter. Grinning, Merlin beat a hasty retreat before Lancelot decided enact his revenge.

o~O~o

Having found the throne room empty, save for a smattering of knights, Merlin headed instead for the prince's chambers. Knocking once and receiving a hoarse, strained "_enter"_, he stepped inside. Arthur sat at the head of the oak table near the window, Gwaine and Leon seated to his left and right respectively. Shoulders slumped, elbows braced on the table's edge and chin propped up on his interlocked fingers, he seemed to be studying something intently, but Gwaine's frame barred it from sight.

Arthur's eyes flickered towards him distractedly, before widening in what would have been a comical fashion had it not been for the genuine relief that passed over his face.

"Merlin!" He rose from his chair, but gripped the back of it tightly for a moment, clearly unbalanced, before recovering and striding the length of the room to greet him. He settled a warm hand on the younger man's shoulder, smiling, although his fever-bright eyes betrayed his concern. "Gaius didn't think you'd be awake for another hour or so. Are you alright? He said you were in a bad way earlier."

Returning the smile with a casual one of his own, Merlin gave a shrug. "Can't do anything by halves, you know me."

Arthur shook his head, his worry fading at the characteristic response. "Next time, I'm leaving you at home," he rasped, his throat still sounding painfully raw. "Honestly, I can't take you anywhere without _something_ happening."

"But leave him here and the rest of us would probably end up dying," Gwaine commented sagely, arm braced over the back of his chair as he twisted 'round to grin at the pair. "Or we'd starve to death. Let's face it; we're all terrible cooks."

Leon eyed him over the rim of his goblet. "Speak for yourself, brother."

Gwaine's grin turned predatory. "Hear that, Merlin? You've been replaced."

The older knight's lips twitched a little, but he hid his amusement well, instead turning his attention Arthur. "I think we ought to show him. At the very least, it might help explain a few things."

"I don't see how," Gwaine grumbled, turning back around to look at the item on the table that Arthur had been studying. "If anything, it only confuses things further."

Merlin glanced between them. "What does? Show me what?"

Arthur sighed, but turned and guided Merlin back towards the table, his hand still resting on the younger man's shoulder. "A knight from the perimeter outpost arrived just under an hour ago. Bearing this."

Taking Arthur's seat when the prince gently pushed him into it, Merlin blinked, bewildered, at the wooden carving sitting in the centre the square of cloth it had apparently come wrapped in.  
"And 'this' would be...?"

Turning hand-sized carved animal to face his manservant, Arthur paused a moment, his face grave, before elaborating: "What was left of the wolf's carcass after they burnt it."

Staring with widening eyes at the tiny, detailed wooden replica of the very beast which had, not six hours ago, tried to tear his back to shreds, Merlin managed to voice his opinion on the matter quite concisely:

"Ah."

* * *

**_To be continued...  
There are indeed more to these wolves than meets the eye. But was it wise to bring the carving back to Camelot? To carry it past the guarded walls of the city and into the very heart of the castle? The trinket may seem harmless now, but how long will its magic remain dormant? Perhaps Arthur learn these answers the hard way..._**

**_I hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter. I always love hearing your feedback, so let me know what you think about the latest turn of events. Also, if you have any requests for scenes/brotherhood pairings in this story, let me know. I'm always happy to oblige._**

**_The next chapter will feature sick!Arthur aplenty as our stubborn prince finally falls prey to the worsening symptoms of his illness. Should be posted a week on Saturday, if all goes well! _**

**_Until then, shipmates! xxx_**


	5. Chapter 5

_**An update that's almost-sort-of-on-time! The world must be ending.**_

_**I've been so eager to continue writing that the story has gone and sprouted wings and spun off a dozen sub-plots that I intend to explore. What was initially going to be an 8-chaptered story will probably need to be extended to 10 chapters. My longest one yet! I'm quite excited. Thank you all for your continued support, last week's reviews were such a confidence-booster, I really appreciated the feedback. Especially to those who reviewed as guests and to whom I could not reply personally - many thanks!**_

_**This chapter's a bit of a long one - topping 5000 words!**_

_**Enjoy. :)**_

* * *

Merlin twisted the cuff of his tunic sleeve in a fretful sort of manner as he studied the carving silently, unable to tear his gaze away. The sense of unease churning in the pit of his stomach grew in strength the longer he stared at it; a feeling of impending danger that he'd learnt to trust long ago. There was a grave sort of tension in the room; a grim countenance held by all as Sir Leon recounted the tale that the outpost messenger had brought to Arthur.

"At first, nothing seemed amiss," the knight spoke, his words directed towards Percival, Lancelot and Elyan; the three younger knights having joined them in Arthur's chambers shortly after Merlin's arrival. Arthur had excused himself soon afterwards to visit his father, stumbling briefly on his way to the door, and Merlin's eyes hadn't been the only set that had narrowed in concern as they watched the prince's departure.

"The pyre burned well," Leon continued, "and most of the patrol returned to their usual posts, leaving the beast's carcass to burn unattended for a brief period of time. Sir Edwin stood guard in the watchtower, and he was the first to notice when the fire went out. It happened quite suddenly, it seems. After burning for little over an hour, the flames simply extinguished themselves."

Merlin did lift his gaze at that, his brows drawn together. "The fire went out by itself?"

"With no apparent cause," the older man confirmed gravely, glancing towards him. "Edwin and Dorogaen descended the tower to take a closer look, only to discover that the carcass had gone. No bones, no charred remains; nothing. Even the burnt wood and ash were stone-cold, as if a fire hadn't burned there at all. But at the heart of the pyre..."

Six pairs of eyes moved as one to look at the wooden sculpture, and the temperature of the room seemed to grow colder. Or perhaps that was just Merlin. A shiver ran down his spine as he studied the wolf again. Something else was at work here, something _dark._ He couldn't explain _why_ in so many words, but its presence in the castle felt terribly wrong. He had the most pressing urge to call upon Kilgarrah and have him hurl the carving into the great Eastern Seas, far from Camelot's borders.

"Well, at least it backs up my theory about what happened to _you_, Merlin," Lancelot spoke, pouring a cup of wine from the flagon on the table and sliding it across to sit in front of the manservant.

"What theory?" Gwaine inquired, nudging Merlin's foot under the table until the younger man gave in with a quiet sigh and took a sip from the cup.

"About the scratches," Lancelot elaborated, his gaze passing to each of the knights around the table, before returning to study Merlin. "The pain didn't worsen until we were at least a half-hour's ride from the outpost. And it struck suddenly, didn't it? That's why you almost fell from your horse."

Merlin nodded slowly, a crease forming in his brow as he tried (and failed) to see how any of this helped to shed light on the disappearance of his wounds.

"One would only assume that it would take a length of time equal to or greater than that to assemble a pyre large enough to burn the wolf's carcass," the young knight went on keenly, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "And Edwin told you that the pyre burnt for an hour before the flames went out, yes?"

Quite suddenly, the pieces fell into place in Merlin's mind, and he saw a similar light beginning to dawn in Leon's eyes even as the older knight nodded, both confirming Lancelot's question and urging him to continue.

"So clearly, the fire went out less than a half-hour after our riding party returned to Camelot, which coincides with the sudden disappearance of Merlin's wounds. Those scratches vanished along with the charred remains of the beast's carcass, and _this_," he tapped the corner of the square cloth that the carving sat on, "took its place."

"It certainly seems like too great a coincidence to ignore," Leon agreed, stroking a hand across his bearded chin as he pondered Lancelot's words.

"And it explains why it felt as though my back was on fire," Merlin added. Receiving five curious glances, he elaborated, "The pain wasn't...it wasn't _normal_, it was more like an intense heat against my skin. Like sitting too close to a fire. But it worsened as time went on. It was a blessing that I passed out when I did."

"But not before throwing up on my boots," Gwaine commented, fiddling with his empty wine goblet.

Merlin felt a stab of guilt at the news, a light flush rising in his cheeks. "Oh. I'm s-"

"Don't worry about it," the knight interrupted cheerfully, waving away the apology with a casual gesture. "I've thrown up on plenty of boots myself."

Even if Merlin had not known his words to be true, the displeased frowns Percival and Elyan directed towards their comrade certainly left no room for doubt in that regard.

"And what about the carving?" Lancelot inquired, turning again towards Leon. "Surely Arthur doesn't mean to leave it out in the open like this? In the middle of his chambers?"

"Well, it can't be destroyed," Gwaine stated, sighing as he slouched back in his chair. "Sir Edwin said they tried everything. Sword, axe, arrowhead; nothing would cleave it in two. Didn't even chip the damn thing, by the looks of it."

"But it's made of wood," Elyan argued, his brow creasing, leaning forwards and reaching for the carving. "Surely a blade would-"

Leon, whose gaze had been drawn to the fire crackling in the hearth over on the other side of the room, snapped back to attention when he sensed movement to his left, his hand reaching out to encircle Elyan's wrist, the younger knight's fingers only an inch away from the miniature wolf.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he cautioned softly. "There's dark magic at play here, and Gaius thinks it best that we avoid touching it directly until he's learnt more about it. He's worried it might still carry a curse."

Elyan withdrew his arm quickly, his gaze now wary as he studied the carving. "So where do we keep it in the meantime?"

The bearded knight gave a short, sharp sigh, his lips thin as he gazed at the wooden sculpture for another long moment in silent contemplation. Then he sat up straighter in his chair and, with quick, efficient movements, wrapped it back up in the square of dark cloth that sat beneath it and bound it tight with a thin leather cord. His task done, he turned to address the other knights.

"Place it inside chest, or a box; something that can be sealed," he instructed calmly, handing the small, padded bundle to Lancelot with due care. "Then lock it in one of the cells in the dungeon and double the guard duty. Perhaps nothing will come of it, but I'd rather err on the side of caution."

Lancelot nodded and stood to his feet, the others following suit, and the four men moved as a group towards the door.

Merlin rose from his chair to follow after them, intent on finding Arthur before Prince Dollophead finally succumbed to his weakening body and ended up collapsing over the side of the battlements. He only made it half a pace, however, before a gentle hand caught his arm. Pausing, he glanced down at Leon, who had remained seated in his chair.

"Wait a moment, if you will," the older man said softly, his calm features betraying nothing. "There's something you and I must discuss."

Merlin took a step back to regain his seat in Arthur's chair, curious and perhaps a _little_ nervous to hear what the knight had to say.

Leon studied him for a moment, before exhaling a long, weary sigh. "Why didn't you speak up sooner, Merlin?"

Blinking, genuinely confused, the younger man cocked his head a little to one side. "About what?"

"About your wounds," the knight replied gravely. "You ought to have told one of us that the pain had begun to worsen. Why did you hold your tongue?"

Merlin averted his gaze, running the pad of his finger over a scuff on his breeches as his stomach did that uncomfortable twisty thing again. He really ought to have seen this coming. Leon had always reacted unfavourably to irresponsible decisions made by those under his protection. Although the warlock had only recently discovered that he was included in that category, when a travelling merchant passing through the city during the winter festival had taken too keen an interest in Merlin after one too many ales. He had evaded the drunkard easily enough, but the man's meaty hands had left visible bruising - not that this was necessarily an indication of the man's excessive violence; Merlin's pale skin bruised at the slightest bump. Although this excuse hadn't benefited the merchant when Arthur's knights had eventually discovered what had transpired.

"Merlin."

Starting a little, and realising with another twinge of embarrassment that Leon had been waiting for an answer, he gave a small, self-conscious shrug.  
"There didn't seem to be any point," he murmured, although the argument lacked any real conviction. "We were already less than an hour away from home."

"And what if the situation had been more serious?" the knight persisted, his voice growing firm. "What if the wounds had reopened and begun to bleed? Were the circumstances different and your injuries more severe, that moment of poor judgement may have cost you your life."

He kept his gaze fixed on his knees, feeling a flush creep up into his cheeks, a mixture of shame, guilt and embarrassment stirring in his chest. So _this_ was what it felt like to be chastised by Leon. Although he'd seen it happen often enough – Elyan and Percival had a knack for getting into trouble - he'd never before been on the receiving end. And it was just as unpleasant as he'd anticipated it to be.

"I know you don't like to burden others with you own troubles," Leon continued, his tone softening now. "I know you prefer to handle things on your own, and I respect that. It's an admirable trait; to put the affairs of others above your own. But not at such a high price, Merlin. When it comes to physical injury, you _must_ speak up if things turn ill. Do you understand?"

The younger man nodded, and he would have kept eyes lowered if not for the warm, comforting weight of Leon's hand on his shoulder. He glanced up to find the knight's usual patient smile back in place.

"I trust this won't be a conversation that will need repeating?"

"No, my lord," Merlin replied sincerely.

"Good." Leon's smile grew warmer, and he lifted his hand from Merlin's shoulder to briefly ruffle his hair. "Now, I've detained you long enough. I know you're keen to find Arthur."

Merlin's answering smile was genuine, albeit bashful, as he stood and moved towards the door, trying to flatten his hair down again.

"Oh, and Merlin?"

He poked his head back into the room. "Hm?"

Leon's eyes met his in a quiet, serious gaze. "See if you can get him to lie down. He's running himself ragged."

Merlin nodded, his smile fading, and quietly closed the door behind him. In this matter, it seemed, he and Leon were of the same mind.

o~O~o

Arthur was grateful for the solid, reliable support of the stone wall on more than one occasion as he made his way through the castle to his father's chambers. His body felt heavy and sluggish, as though his limbs were encased in iron, making walking a slow, tiring uphill battle. Thankfully, the corridors were mostly deserted - the servants busy attending to their masters at supper, or dining with their own families down in the lower town - so few were present to see him as he stumbled along the corridors.

The guards posted near the entrance to his father's chambers stared at him a little too intently as he passed by, but they wisely averted their gazes when he returned their stares with a narrow-eyed one of his own. Holding his head high and his shoulders back, he strode between them, maintaining the outward confidence of a crowned prince right up until the moment the doors closed behind him. Then he sagged back against the solid oak with a long, tired sigh, dragging a hand down his face.

He felt awful. His throat burned when he swallowed, and there was a hot, persistent throbbing behind his eyes that no amount of rubbing had eased. His chest felt tight, as though he wore a buttoned leather jerkin that had shrunk in the rain, but even in his baggiest tunic and jacket the feeling of constraint persisted. If he breathed in deeply, there was an unnerving sort of crackle from deep within his chest that induced a fit of coughing so painful that, following the first occurrence earlier that afternoon, he'd been careful to only breathe shallowly thereafter.

And the _heat_. Gods, it was enough to sap the strength from any man. Even now, Arthur could feel the sweat beading on his brow, the moisture rapidly chilling in the cool air.

"Arthur?"

He gave a start at the voice, having quite forgotten where he was, and glanced towards the figure sitting in one of the chairs by the fireside. The man's head had turned towards the doorway by a fraction, although his gaze hadn't wavered from the dancing golden flames in the hearth.

"Father," the prince greeted warmly, a genuine smile curling at his lips despite his fatigue.

He moved across the room, slowing briefly when it began to spin, but made it to the king's side without losing his footing. Resting a hand on the his father's shoulder and squeezing gently, he waited to see if Uther would show any other reaction to his presence. When the king's eyes remained fixed on the hearth, he sat down in his own chair with a quiet sigh, sliding his hand down from the man's shoulder to lightly grip his forearm before releasing him. Someone – undoubtedly Gwen, bless her – had left a silver pitcher of spiced wine on the low table to his left, the steaming beverage filling the room with sweet aromas. He filled two goblets, pressing one into his father's hand, and Uther's fingers grasped the cup with an ease and strength that lightened Arthur's mood considerably.

So perhaps Uther was having one of his better days after all. Arthur harboured a quiet, keen hope that this would prove to be the case.

It had been eight months since he and his knights had brought an end to Morgana's immortal army and defeated Morgause, banishing the sisters from Camelot. Months of peace; of prosperity. Camelot had healed and grown and flourished, the harvests bountiful and the people rejoicing in their hard-won freedom. And yet at the very heart of the realm lay a raw, open wound.

Uther's recovery had been slow, faltering, and at times he seemed as frail and broken as the day Arthur had freed him from his cell in the dungeon. There were days when he would neither speak nor eat, his gaze lost in some distant sorrow that time had not served to heal. Days when Uther was but a shadow of the man he had once been; the ageing shell of a once-great king, hollowed and defeated.

And yet there were good days, where the king would be lucid enough to hold a conversation with him. He would questio Arthur on matters of state, and rise - for a short time - from his chair by the fireside to survey his kingdom from the balcony in the adjacent chamber. His eyes, usually so dim and distant, would flicker with life once again. Arthur would hold tight to the memory of those few lucid hours in the darker days that always followed.

Although the bad days continued to outweigh the good, Arthur was certain that his father was slowly regaining strength. He would not allow himself to surrender to the dark slither of doubt that was ever-present in his heart. One day, Uther would sit again on the throne of Camelot, as tall and proud as he had ever been in Arthur's youth. He just needed a little more time.

The spiced wine slipped down his throat like a blessing, easing the raw ache there, and Arthur shook himself from his thoughts to refocus his attention on the man who sat beside him.

"A wolf attacked us at the northern outpost today, Father," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "A monstrous thing, as big as a horse. I'd never seen a creature in its likeness. It must have left the safety of the Darkening Woods in search of food. Merlin...my manservant was injured, but we killed the beast before it could cause further harm. And the knights burnt the carcass, so all is well."

He would not, at present, mention the fact that the wolf had disappeared and a wooden carving had taken its place. Sorcery had never been a subject that one could raise lightly in his father's company, and even more so since Morgana's betrayal.

_Morgana_. Even now, thoughts of his sister - _sister_; he was still adjusting to that particular revelation - raised conflicting emotions within him. Anger, betrayal - they had grown up together as playmates, and she had always been a sister to him, not by blood but by choice, and he had trusted her, to the very last. And yet he also felt pity, compassion; magic had played a part in twisting her into the cold-hearted and cruel sorceress she had become. She was, in many ways, a victim of its poisonous influence. But he could never forgive her for the destruction she had wrought on the innocent people of Camelot, nor the lasting blow she had dealt his - _their_ - father in tearing his kingdom apart before his eyes.

Shaking his head to rid himself of memories that he would rather not think about, he heaved a long sigh. Unfortunately, the action first required him to inhale deeply, and at the tickling crackle deep within his chest, his lungs went into spasm. Coughing wetly, his chest burning, he leaned forwards in his chair to ease the pressure on his lungs, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm as his eyes began to water.

When he leaned back again, swiping at the moisture on his cheeks and breathing unevenly, he found his father watching him with quiet, serious eyes. Recovering quickly, Arthur reached across to lay a hand on the man's left forearm.

"Father? Is there something you need?"

Uther's gaze didn't waver, and slowly - very slowly - his right hand moved from its resting position on the arm of the chair to cover Arthur's, his skin cool to the touch and weathered by age.

"You are unwell," he spoke, his voice a low rumble through lack of use.

Arthur forced a smile, confident and reassuring. "I'm fine, Father. I just drank my wine a little too fast."

"No." Uther's eyes were staring at him fixedly now, wary and fearful, and the hand that covered Arthur's seemed to tighten a little. His voice was fainter, ragged and ancient. "No. You are unwell."

Alarmed by the note of distress, Arthur slid from his seat gracefully to kneel beside Uther's chair, his other hand coming up to rest on the older man's knee.  
"Father, I'm alright," he insisted, although his voice cracked mid-sentence. "It's a mild winter chill. Nothing more."

The hand lifted slowly, falteringly, and Arthur's eyes slid closed involuntarily at the touch of cool fingers against his hot forehead, feeling the tremor in his father's hand. When he opened his eyes again, Uther's gaze was more focused - more _aware_ - than Arthur had seen it in over a month.

"Your brow burns," the older man said, the words slow but clear, with a strength he had not possessed only moments ago. "How long have you been hiding this from me?"

Arthur never would have thought that it would feel so wondrous to be scolded by his father again. "My fever only began today," he answered truthfully. "A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain."

Uther nodded once and slowly withdrew his hand. Arthur missed it immediately. It had been two weeks since his father had been lucid enough to even notice his presence, let alone touch him with such tenderness. And who knew how long it would be before the darkness receded to this extent again?

With a sigh - a shallow one this time; he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice - he stood to his feet and turned towards the door.  
"I'll let the guards know they're dismissed for a few hours."

"No." Uther's hand caught his wrist, and he glanced down. His father's gaze had drifted back to the fire, but the grip on Arthur's arm had a hidden strength to it.

"Father?"

The man's head turned slowly, although his gaze didn't rise to meet his son's. "You should not remain here for my sake, Arthur. You need to rest."

The thought of his bed was an enticing one, but Arthur was loath to leave his father when Uther seemed in such good health. "I'm fine, really. A few more hours won't do me any-"

"No." The grip on his wrist tightened, but the eyes that rose to meet his were old and darkened with a distant sorrow once more. "No. Rest, Arthur. _Please_."

Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat at the plaintive, ragged plea, and gently settled his hand over the one that grasped his wrist. "I'll retire to my chambers at once."

Uther watched him for another moment, then slowly turned his head away, his gaze returning to the fire and his grip going lax. Gently, Arthur pried the loose fingers from his wrist and lowered the frail hand to the arm of the chair, stooping down briefly to press a his lips to the crown of the man's head.

"Goodnight, father."

Blinking moisture from his eyes that had very little to do with the hot, pounding ache in his skull, he slipped quietly from the room.

o~O~o

Merlin had made a brief detour to seek out Gaius in the castle libraries, realising belatedly that his mentor hadn't yet been informed that he was conscious. At first, the physician seemed torn between wanting to embrace Merlin in relief at seeing him well, and scolding him for being up out of bed so soon. In the end, the elderly man chose to do both at the same time.

After promising to return to home as soon as Arthur no longer needed him, and submitting to an obligatory physical examination, Gaius had sent Merlin on his way with an affectionate pat on his shoulder.

However, despite the scolding, it was clear that Gaius had anticipated Merlin's visit, for when the warlock slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket to keep them warm as he strolled through the castle corridors, his fingers closed around a small glass vial. A note had been fastened to the neck of the vial with twine. _"Something to help Arthur sleep. - Gaius"_, it read. With a smile, Merlin slipped it back into his pocket and went in search of his master.

Locating him took a little longer than expected. After being informed by the guards outside the king's chambers that Arthur had long since departed, he went to search elsewhere in the castle, not anticipating that the prince would return to his chambers of his own accord so early in the evening. However, when his hunt produced no results, he made his way back to his initial starting point.

The door to Arthur's chambers stood ajar, and he pushed it open the rest of the way without a second thought.

_Thud!_

The leather boot collided with the frame of the door, missing Merlin's his head by mere inches. The warlock stared at it for a moment, then turned to Arthur with his eyebrows raised.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Arthur glanced towards him, seeming surprised by his entrance. "Merlin." His gaze shifted to the boot on the floor and he winced. "Sorry. I never heard you come in."

Merlin moved further into the room, closing the door behind him and bending down to retrieve the discarded item of clothing. "In that case, did the door do something wrong?"

"I suppose not," Arthur mumbled, dropping down to sit on the edge of his bed, hands hanging loosely between his knees and forearms braced on his thighs as he slouched forwards.

He made no move to take off his other boot, so Merlin sunk to one knee in front of him and lifted his leg to remove it himself, glancing up when Arthur gave no verbal protest.  
"How was your father?" he asked conversationally, setting the boots aside beneath the dresser and moving over to the hearth to stoke the embers into life again.

"In good health," Arthur replied distractedly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the heel of his palm. "He even spoke with me, for a short time."

"See?" Merlin rose from the hearthrug, smiling towards the prince. "I told you he was getting better." He brushed off his hands briskly. "Have you had supper yet?"

"Hm?" Arthur blinked, stirring from his stupor.

"Supper. Would you like some?"

The prince shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm not all that hungry. You can..." He paused, then lifted his gaze to Merlin, eyes narrowing in a questioning gaze. "Didn't I give you the rest of the day off?"

Merlin gave a one-shouldered shrug. "There was nothing better to do. Figured I'd save my day off for something a little more worthwhile. Use it when you're least expecting it."

Arthur's lips twitched a little. "I don't think that's quite how 'days off' work."

"Yes it is," Merlin insisted with a superior air. "It's a proper rule and everything. I read it in a book."

His smile twitching a little wider, Arthur shook his head. "If you say so, Merlin." He rubbed the back of his neck, yawning as shallowly as he could so as not to irritate the crackle in his lungs, and slid beneath the covers on his bed.

Merlin stood there silently for a beat, one eyebrow raised. "Um. Are you planning on sleeping in your clothes?"

"Seems that way," came the hoarse reply, muffled through several layers of blankets.

"Are you sure you don't want to change into a nightshirt first?"

"Can't be arsed."

"I could help?"

"Sod off."

"Right. But before I do," Merlin reached into his pocket, "drink this for me."

Prying an eyelid open, he peered out over the top of the blankets to survey the glass vial in Merlin's hand. "What is it?"

"It's a sleeping draught. Gaius thought you might need it."

Arthur's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Ghastly stuff."

"Believe me, I'm inclined to agree." Merlin gave the bottle a little shake from side to side. "But it'll soothe your aches."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"It'll help you get a good nights sleep?"

"You leaving will have exactly the same effect."

"Come on, Arthur, just drink it."

"_You_ drink it."

"One mouthful and it's gone," Merlin insisted, uncorking the vial. "How hard can that be?"

There came a tired sigh from the blankets, and Arthur's eyes peered over the top again. "You aren't going to leave me alone until I've taken it, are you?"

At Merlin's answering grin, he rolled his eyes and extracted an arm from beneath the blankets, holding out his hand for the vial. Downing it in a single gulp, he pulled a face and exchanged the vial for the cup of sweetened wine that had appeared in Merlin's outstretched hand. Draining the goblet to rid his mouth of the bitter taste, he flopped back down against the mattress.

"Happy?"

"Thrilled."

"Good." The blankets were tugged up a little higher. "Now you can sod off."

"I live to serve, Sire," Merlin quipped, giving an exaggerated bow even though Arthur couldn't see it, and extinguishing the candles on his way out.

"Merlin?"

The warlock paused, already half out the door. "Yes?"

There was a pause, interrupted only by the faint crackle of the dying embers, before Arthur spoke again, his voice thick with fatigue and roughened by sickness, but sincere.  
"...I'm glad your back's alright."

Merlin smiled, the expression soft, a familiar warmth stirring in his chest despite the chill of the corridor.

"Goodnight, Arthur."

* * *

**_The next chapter might not be posted for a couple of weeks, I have a few essays due between now and then. Let me know your thoughts! I do so love to hear feedback, both good and bad._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

**_I.G xxx_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Well, shipmates, it's approaching crunch-time for my uni assignments, but I knew that this chapter would be weighing on my mind (and fuelling my procrastination) if I didn't indulge in a little me-time and get it posted.**_

_**This story continues to grow, choosing to take ever-darker routes in my imagination. I apologise in advance for the tears that may come later on. The plot bunnies are holding me captive with laser-carrots, I'm completely at their mercy. It's safe to say that the chapter count is steadily increasing. I'd estimate at least a 12-parter, just to be on the safe side.**_

_**Thanks again for such marvellous feedback, I really can't express just how grateful I am for all the attention my story has received. I now have over 160 followers for this story alone! *waves* All my love to you, dear readers!**_

_**Here's a little something I wrote, just for you. And by 'little', I actually mean 'oh whoops, there goes the word count, I hope you all brought sleeping bags'. **_

* * *

The bedchamber was dark, save for the orange embers that glowed dimly in the cooling hearth. Treading carefully as he moved across the room, Merlin scarcely dared to breathe lest he shatter the fragile silence that hung in the air, a single candle held aloft to aid him as he manoeuvred around obstacles in his path, sparing his shins from any unfortunate collisions.

Reaching the bed, he bent over the sleeping figure, lowering the candle to illuminate the mound of furs and blankets that currently housed the kingdom's ailing prince. Arthur had pulled the coverlets right up to his nose, so that only the upper portion of his face was visible. This was in contrast to his usual higgledy-piggledy sprawl, where half the blankets would be on the floor with their owner entangled in the few that had remained on the bed, likely with at least one limb hanging out, regardless of the cooler temperature of the room on winter mornings.

Today, however, the prince was a veritable cocoon of coverings. Merlin felt a twist of unease within him at the sight. In fact, Arthur's uncharacteristically sedate slumber unnerved him to the extent that he sat down on the edge of the mattress and leaned in closer in order to listen to the man's breathing. The sound was raspy, with a congested sort of wheeze that made him wince in sympathy, but the pattern was regular and unfaltering.

Thus reassured that the heir to the throne of Camelot hadn't conked it overnight, Merlin released the breath that he'd been holding and willed his racing heart to calm, setting the candle to one side. Carefully, keeping his touch light so as not to waken him, the warlock laid the flat of his hand against Arthur's forehead, brow creasing at the fierce heat that radiated back into his palm. Keeping his hand in place, he half-turned and glanced towards Sir Gildor. The tall, broad-shouldered figure had remained at the threshold to the room, silhouetted in the open doorway by the torch-light from the corridor. Slowly, so that the man could see him even in the dim candlelight, he shook his head, tight-lipped.

Gildor paused for a moment, eyes trained on the ailing prince - who, even from this distance, seemed pale and wan - before acknowledging Merlin's prognosis with a single, brisk nod. With care, he closed the door to Arthur's chambers so that the sound was no louder than the faint rasp of wood against wood, and turned to stride off down the corridor towards his own chambers.

As he had suspected, the younger man was not in a fit state to accompany them on patrol this morning. However, he doubted that Arthur would agree with him if given the opportunity to voice his own opinion on the matter. The solution, therefore, was obvious:

They would leave before the prince awoke.

o~O~o

"Come on, Alfric, we'll miss them if you don't hurry!"

Glancing up from his porridge, the older boy smothered a grin at his brother's attire. "Mother's going to have kittens if she sees you in Grandfather's chainmail."

Puffing out his chest, the six-year-old planted his hands on his hips. "But I'm going to be a guard in the castle, just like he was. And ladies don't have _kittens,_ Alfric, they have _babes_."

Alfric spooned up the last of his breakfast. "Can you even walk in that?" he queried around the sticky mouthful.

"Yes," the boy answered defensively, and took several faltering steps across the room, clearly struggling beneath the weight of the armour. "And don't talk with your mouth full, Mother says it's rude."

"You can't go out like that, Oswin, you'll fall into a snowdrift and get stuck," Alfric told him with a patience that he didn't really feel - sometimes his younger brother was unbelievably dense. He stood up and pushed his bowl away. "Alright, I'm done. Where's your cloak?"

It took a minute to wrestle the six-year-old out of the heavy chainmail, and by then Oswin was bouncing on his tip-toes in his eagerness to leave the house, run to the woods and wait by the roadside until the morning patrol passed by. Grandfather had taken them every morning until last winter, when he'd gone to sleep and hadn't woken up again. Then Father had taken them instead, until the Bad Men had come, and after that Mother hadn't let them leave the house at all for _weeks_ and _weeks_ because she said there were soldiers lurking in the woods, and even Uncle couldn't fight them off with his wood-axe. Oswin hadn't really understood what was going on, but nobody in the village had gone into the city for market, and everyone thought King Uther had been killed, and nobody had liked the new Queen except the Bad Men in the woods.

But then everything had been alright again, and the patrols had started to pass by the village like they had before - except now the knights were even friendlier, and they would wave to him and Alfric. If they weren't in a hurry, the older knight with the dark beard who rode at the front of the patrol would call for the others to halt, and he'd be allowed to pet their tall, friendly horses while the riders questioned Alfric about the news from the village. And sometimes Prince Arthur would be there too, and _he_ would smile, and Oswin would run back to the village to tell Gwyneth and Godric just how _nice_ the prince was.

"There," Alfric said, fastening Oswin's cloak about his shoulders. "At least now you don't look like you've fallen off the back-end of a cart."

Too eager to take offence at the comment, Oswin grabbed his older brother by the hand and dragged him towards the door, ignoring Alfric's warning to stay close and letting go as soon as the pair stepped outside into the cold. Running as fast as his small legs could carry him through the ankle-deep snow, the little boy made a beeline for his father's workshop a short distance away. He could hear the steady _clang_ of metal-on-metal, and the dark smoke rising from the chimney told him that the men were already hard at work. He heard Alfric call his name again, but he'd already spotted his father at the far end of the blacksmith's hut, and he ducked around a sizzling black thing and another, bigger black thing and ran towards where Father was hammering away at a piece of glowing metal.

Just as he neared him, a hand shot out and caught him lightly by the front of his tunic.  
"Oswin," a familiar voice rumbled, his tone scolding, "what have you been told about running around in here while the men are at work?"

Alfric came jogging up to stand beside them, out of breath. "Sorry, Uncle Borden," he said, with as much sincerity as an eleven-year-old could muster. "He slipped away before I could stop him."

"You can't always apologise for your brother's mistakes, lad," the dark-haired man replied patiently, then gave Oswin a gentle shake. "It'll be him who'll need to live with the consequences, were something to happen."

Oswin scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt, eyes downcast and lower lip wobbling. "M'sorry, Uncle."

Borden's stern features softened, and the blacksmith caught the boy up in his arms in a tight, slightly sooty embrace. "Well then," he said, tapping the boy beneath the chin to coax a shy smile out of him. "All's forgiven. Wouldn't you agree, Brodwyn?"

"Well said, brother." The older man appeared behind Alfric, resting his hands on his eldest son's shoulders and smiling when the boy craned his head back look up at him. "Was there something you needed, lads?"

Alfric smiled hopefully. "May we go to the path in the woods and wait for the knights to ride by?"

"Please?" Oswin wheedled, peeking out from the safety of Borden's neck.

The two men shared an amused look, remembering a time long ago when they had pestered their own father - may he rest in peace - to take them into the city for some jousting tournament or another. Brodwyn squeezed Alfric's shoulders and smiled softly.  
"Keep to the path, and come straight home once the patrol has passed by. It's still too cold to linger outside in this bitter weather."

The boy nodded obediently. "Yes, Father."

"And you," the chief smithy turned to shake an admonishing finger at his youngest son, although the amusement had yet to fade from his expression, "listen to your brother. And don't go wondering off."

Oswin nodded, the picture of innocence, and held still long enough for his father to pat his head affectionately, before squirming in his uncle's arms, eager to be let down. The moment his feet touched the ground, he was lunging to grab hold of Alfric's hand again, dragging the older boy away from the warmth of the workshop, already talking a mile a minute about which knights he thought might come today, _"maybe Prince Arthur will let me see his sword"_ and "_do you think the one with the nice white horsey will be there?"_.

Alfric nodded whenever the boy paused for breath and focused his attention on trying to keep a tight hold of his brother's hand.

o~O~o

Merlin sat on a stool in front of the hearth, absently munching on the sweetbread he'd swiped from the kitchens for his breakfast and trying not to prick his shaking fingers as he mended the vertical tears in his tunic and cloak, waiting patiently for Gaius to finish examining his back (again). Despite his protests, the physician remained unconvinced that Merlin was in good health. The warlock wasn't sure if he ought to take offence at his mentor's lack of faith in him, or feel ashamed that he'd given the older man such cause to doubt his word over the years. Admittedly, the number of times in the past when he'd said _"I'm fine, Gaius, it's nothing"_ when he had been very-definitely-_not-_fine was beyond the count. Which was why he'd only given a token protest when Gaius had rolled up his shirt to feel along the muscles of his back and shoulders for any hidden damage.

It wouldn't have been such an issue, had the temperature been a little warmer. Because at present, even with the added warmth of the fire, the hairs on his arms still stood on end and turned his skin to goose flesh. He hated this bitter weather.

Cursed with long, gangly limbs that chilled far too easily, and without an ounce of fat to his scrawny body, winters had always been a rather unpleasant experience. For many of the villagers in Ealdor, that harsh fourth season had been an endless struggle for survival. Even when the harvest had been bountiful and every homestead had enough food to keep starvation at bay, they had all feared those bitter winter nights. As a child, he and his mother would curl up as close to the dying fire as they dared, her arms wrapped around him from behind as they shared each other's warmth. It had been uncomfortable to sleep with nought but straw beneath them, but every blanket and fur in their possession had been piled upon them to stave off the cold. His mother would wrap her own shawl loosely about his face, pulling it up over his frozen nose and tucking it behind his ears so that only his eyes and forehead were left uncovered. And sometimes, when a winter storm raged outside and rattled the wooden shutters at the window, Hunith would sing to him softly, drowning out the inhuman howling of the wind with her soothing voice.

_Fie_, but he missed her. A day rarely passed when she wasn't on his mind. And yet he knew he could never truly bring himself to leave his place at Arthur's side, nor abandon the comfort and security that his life with Gaius had given him. He hoped, one day, when Arthur was on the throne and the kingdom was finally at peace with her neighbouring lands, that his mother would choose leave Ealdor and make a new life for herself in Camelot. He could pick flowers for her near the brook when he went to gather herbs for Gaius, and bring her sweet rolls for breakfast from the castle kitchens (because the dear old cook was forever trying to fatten him up). She'd want for nothing, Merlin would make sure of it.

It was a fool's hope, yes. But one he clung to unwaveringly.

"You ought to count yourself lucky, Merlin," Gaius spoke at last, pulling him from his thoughts. The physician lowered the younger man's tunic again and patted his back. "Not many can claim to have survived such an attack, let alone have their wounds heal within a matter of hours, as if by magic."

"Do you think it _was_ magic?" Merlin asked, a note of concern in his voice, craning his neck to glance back at the older man. "What if I healed myself without realising what I was doing?"

Gaius squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Arthur and the knights believe that your wounds healed because the wolf ceased to exist as a living, breathing creature. And I see no need, at present, to question such a sound theory. There are certainly far too many coincidences to simply ignore it."

Merlin nodded, growing silent for a moment as he contemplated Gaius' words. The physician returned to his worktable, and for a while the only sounds in the room were the scraping of mortar and pestle, and the gentle crackling of firewood. Merlin refocused his attention on the task at hand, grateful that his mother had gone to such painstaking lengths during his childhood to teach him how to sew properly. The skill had come in handy during his life in Camelot, both as a manservant - because Arthur had an infuriating propensity to tear holes in _everything_ he wore - and in assisting Gaius as a physician.

After a while, he became aware of the heavy silence that now dominated the room, and he half-turned in his seat to glance over towards Gaius. The physician still sat at his worktable, arms resting on its edge, a corked vial grasped loosely in one hand as he stared down at the assortment of herbs and tinctures with a faraway gaze. Merlin tilted his head to one side, brow creasing.

"Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

Gaius blinked, stirring from his stupor, and stood slowly. "Well, we both have our duties to attend to, and the townsfolk won't heal themselves. A number of children in the lower town have come down with a bad case lung fever; nasty business." He set the corked vial down on the edge of the table nearest to Merlin, before moving to fetch his satchel. "That ought to ease Arthur's symptoms, at least for the time being. Don't hesitate to send for me if his condition worsens."

"Gaius." Merlin twisted around to face his mentor, his expression wary. The needlework lay forgotten in his lap. "What aren't you telling me?"

The physician paused, his back to Merlin, and the warlock saw the man's shoulders rise and fall as he heaved a long, weary sigh. When Gaius turned around to face him again, his countenance was grim.  
"The black wolves of the western plains have not been sighted in many years, Merlin. Certainly not in my lifetime. Their sudden reappearance is...troubling."

"So you _have_ heard of them?" Merlin pressed, his interest piqued.

"In stories and fables, yes." Gaius sank down into a chair, resting his hands on his knees. "There are tales that date back countless years, to a time where magic lay at the heart of the land, and the five realms were governed by one man; a great and powerful sorcerer named Gilderoth. He lived long beyond the lifespan of mortal men - rumours say that time did not age him, nor hardships weather him, even after a generation had passed."

"Gilderoth," Merlin repeated, mulling the name over. It was a name familiar to him, but his knowledge of the ancient legends of the five kingdoms was sketchy at best. "And you're saying that he was the one who created the wolves?"

Nodding, Gaius rubbed at his chin in thought. "So it seems. Although many of the tomes dating back to Gilderoth's reign have been lost or destroyed over time, I did manage to find a scroll in the castle archives that spoke of a host of creatures called the _Mæsthleo_; sworn servants of Gilderoth. He conjured them from the earth with a deep and powerful magic, binding them to his own soul. In essence, their existence became linked with his own. Legend states that Gileroth's black wolves would roam the borders of his kingdom, bringing terror to his enemies and ensuring that the power he held across the five realms was absolute."

Merlin leaned forwards intently. "But Gilderoth fell at the hands of his own kin," he stated, recalling now where he had heard the name before. "He was destroyed, and the realms fell into chaos. That's how the battle of the five kingdoms began."

"Yes, or so they say," Gaius agreed. "Each realm elected their own king to lead them, and the land was fought over in the countless decades that followed."

Pausing, Merlin sat in thought for a moment. When he spoke again, his words were slow, measured.  
"You said Gilderoth used magic to create the wolves - that they were bound to his existence."

Gaius dipped his head in confirmation.

"Then..." Merlin glanced up from his knees, dread dawning slowly in his eyes. "If the wolves have returned, that means Gilderoth must still be alive."

The physician sighed again, standing slowly and reaching for his satchel. "At present, my boy, I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility. Some tales suggested that Gilderoth was immortal, born of the very magic that wove the land together, but nothing can be taken as fact without further proof. As for the moment, I suggest you keep what I've told you to yourself. At least until we have a more solid understanding of the matter."

Merlin nodded, setting his unfinished sewing aside and reaching for the vial of tonic that Gaius had left on the edge of the table. His gaze was lowered, his eyes lost in thought.  
"I need to check on Arthur," he murmured.

"Merlin." Gaius caught his forearm in a gentle grasp as he tried to slip past him. He waited until the younger man met his gaze before squeezing the bony wrist with a reassuring half-smile. "Try not to think on it too much. No good ever came from worrying about something that exists beyond your control. Concentrate on helping Arthur, and we'll fight the battles ahead when we reach them."

The unease within him lessened a little at the older man's words, and Merlin settled a hand over the weathered one that grasped his arm, returning the smile as best he could. Then he was off out the door, his mind whirling with thoughts and fears, lost in images of a history all but forgotten by those who now dwelt within Camelot. Gilderoth...the name stirred something deep within him; there was that sense of _wrong_ again, the sickening twist of dread that he'd felt yesterday morning when the wolf's dark conscience had first brushed his mind.

"You, boy!"

Starting at the voice, Merlin ground to a halt and peered over his shoulder. His stomach dropped into his boots at the sight of Sir Hugh striding his way, his sallow face framed by charcoal-black hair, a scowl darkening his features.

Perfect. As if his morning could possibly get any worse.

He turned to face the knight, summoning forth the go-to expression of respect and polite indifference that he usually only reserved for King Uther.  
"My lord," he greeted, with as shallow a bow as he could get away with. "Is there something you need?"

Sir Hugh came to stand before him, sharp, hawk-like eyes pinning him in a stare that no doubt sent most servants running, lips pressed together in a line so thin that they seemed to almost blend in with the rest of his pale, gaunt face.

"What's this?" he asked, with an air of feigned amusement. "Prince Arthur has gone out riding and discarded his pet servant? However are you surviving without him?"

Merlin ignored the insult with the sort of practised ease that one quickly develops (to aid one's survival) when living in a castle surrounded by royals and dignitaries who seem to be able to afford everything except decent manners.

"Arthur's here in the castle, my lord," he replied neutrally, nodding towards the empty corridor ahead.

The man's expression twitched, his surprise registering for a brief moment before the smug half-smile returned. "I'm afraid you're quite mistaken, boy. Your master departed at dawn, riding west on patrol. You've quite been forgotten, it seems."

Had he not been there to see the riding party depart almost an hour ago, Merlin would have found the man's words alarming. However, given that he'd played a part in ensuring that the knights left on patrol _before_ Arthur had a chance to awaken, he was fairly certain that he'd return to the prince's chambers and find Arthur exactly how he'd left him; curled up in bed, sweating out his fever.

"Arthur hasn't left the castle since we returned from the outpost yesterday," he insisted, his mask of forced politeness slipping in the face of Sir Hugh's smug half-grin. "He didn't accompany the others out on patrol this morning; he had other matters to attend to."

The knight's expression faltered again, and something burned behind his eyes that Merlin couldn't quite identify.  
"You're lying."

The warlock abysmally failed to mask his reaction this time, his expression caught somewhere between mild incredulity and downright annoyance.  
"What could I possibly hope gain by-"

Sir Hugh pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back firmly against the wall of the corridor, crowding in close, his face thunderous.  
"Do _not_ take that tone with me, boy," the knight warned, his words low and sharp. "But since you seem to be suffering from a loose tongue this morning, answer me this: why did Arthur not accompany his men out on patrol?"

"He's the prince," Merlin answered flatly, meeting the man's gaze. "He's allowed to do what he wants."

If possible, the man's scowl deepened. "You're avoiding the question."

Merlin was fast losing patience, and had begun to feel defensive on Arthur's behalf. Had it been any other knight - someone who Merlin had fought alongside over the past few years and grown to respect - he wouldn't have hesitated to explain the situation. But Sir Hugh had arrived in Camelot only weeks ago, and he'd failed to make a good impression with anyone.

"With all due respect, my lord," he replied slowly, with an excessive amount forced politeness that bordered on sheer _sass_, "I don't see how it's any of your business."

This, apparently, was not the response Sir Hugh had been hoping for. Merlin found his wrist seized in an iron grip, his arm twisted at an almost painful angle as the knight yanked him forward by the lapels of his jacket, their faces inches apart.

"How _dare_ you presume to lecture me?" the man growled, and Merlin felt spittle hit his cheek with the ferocity of the words. "You're nothing more than common filth, boy."

Hugh twisted the arm in his grasp a little more, until Merlin sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth. The knight brought his face in closer, until the manservant was forced to tilt his head back in order to avoid a collision. Hugh's lips curled upwards at the reaction, his smirk even more unnerving than the previous expression.

"Now," he purred, his voice like silk, sending an unpleasant tingle down Merlin's spine, "I'll ask you again: why did Arthur choose to remain behind this morning? And if you value the use of your left arm, you'll answer me truthfully."

The bruising grip tightened anew.

"Because he's unwell!" Merlin blurted, face pinched in a grimace as his joints began to ache with the strain of Hugh's hold. He felt no guilt in the admission - most of the castle already knew of the prince's ill health. Rumours like that tended to spread fast in Camelot.

The knight surveyed him for a long moment, nostrils flared and eyes burning with anger, before releasing him abruptly and shoving him away.  
"You will speak of this to no one," he warned, then stalked off in the opposite direction, red cloak billowing out behind him.

Merlin stayed leaning against the wall for support, breathing a little heavily, massaging his sore arm as he watched the knight disappear out of sight. He'd never liked the sour-faced, ill-tempered nobleman, but there was something distinctly _off_ about him today.

Trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that was gnawing at his gut again, he turned to continue on his way towards Arthur's chambers, closing his hand around the glass vial in his pocket. Sir Hugh's arrival had done nothing to improve his mood. Arthur was going to take the tonic whether he liked it or not because, in the name of all that was sacred, _something_ was going to go right for him today.

o~O~o

"Alfric, m'cold," Oswin whined, tugging on his brother's hand.

The older boy sighed, kicking at a stray twig, sending up a spray of powdery snow. It had been easy enough to keep Oswin entertained for a short while, but now that they had reached the woodland road, his brother was growing increasingly more impatient.

"Alfric," the boy persisted, using both hands now to tug at the eleven-year-old's arm. "When's the patrol going to ride by? We've been out here for _hours_."

It had likely been less than a half an hour, but trying to reason with his brother would, as ever, prove to be fruitless, so Alfric saved his breath.

Oswin shifted from foot to foot, letting out a short huff of a sigh, his breath misting in the cold air. He managed to last all of thirty seconds before tugging on Alfric's arm again.  
"Can we play a game? Please?"

Smiling a little - because Oswin was infuriating sometimes, but he was also terrible at games, so Alfric always won - the older boy glanced down at the six-year-old.  
"What game did you have in mind?"

"Fox and Rabbit, Fox and Rabbit!" came the enthusiastic reply.

It was a child's game, and Alfric was practically a man now so he was far too old to play that sort of thing, but none of the other village boys were watching. And at least it would keep them warm.

"Alright," he agreed, letting go of his brother's hand. "I'll be the fox. Run, rabbit, run!"

Oswin giggled and darted away. "You have to count double, because I'm smaller!"

The older boy rolled his eyes but obliged, counting to ten aloud and being sure to keep an eye on his younger brother. Oswin had darted off up the gently sloping rise of the wood, kicking up snow as he ran, his dark green cloak unfurling behind him. Reaching ten, the 'Fox' took pursuit of its prey, closing the distance between them steadily. Although Alfric found that it was harder to run uphill in snow than he had anticipated, and was quite out of puff by the time he reached the top.

Oswin was standing just beyond the rise of the slope, facing away from him, and Alfric pounced to wrap his arms around the boy from behind.  
"Supper time!" he growled, grinning.

"Shhh!" the six-year-old hissed, standing perfectly still in his hold. He lifted a hand and pointed towards a denser patch of trees up ahead. "There's a horsey, look!"

Alfric straightened, surprised, peering through the snow-covered boughs. Sure enough, something large and black moved behind the trees. Oswin smothered a giggle.

"It heard me!"

"Shh." This time it was Alfric's turn to silence his brother. The animal had indeed heard the boy's voice, for it had stilled, and lifted its head to _look_ at them through the cover of the trees and bushes. And it certainly was _not_ a 'horsey'.

"Oswin." Alfric fumbled for his brother's hand, gripping it tightly, trying to keep his voice low and calm, although it shook a little. "When I say 'go', you need to run as fast as you can; faster than you ever have before. Don't stop, don't look back, just keep running. Understand?"

The little boy picked up on the way his brother's voice wobbled unevenly, his smile fading as peered up at him, uncertainty written across his face. "Alfric...?"

The eleven-year-old breathed shallowly, rapidly, through his nose, fighting the building terror within him. The creature hadn't moved yet, but nor had it looked away, it's dark eyes locked with his in what felt like a battle of wills. He was unarmed save for the small pocketknife that Father made him carry at his belt whenever they left the village, but against a beast like this what good would _that_ do?

The creature shifted again and lowered its head. Alfric took his chance.

"Go! Now!"

Pulling on Oswin's hand, he hurtled back down the slope towards the road, his steps clumsy and uneven as his feet slipped on rocks and branches hidden beneath the snow. Oswin tripped and fell at his side, and the older boy hauled him back up again by his arm and kept running. Back at the top of the slope, he could hear the rustle of bushes and the snapping of twigs.

"Run, Oswin! Keep running!" he shouted, his heart beating so fast that it ought to have flown clear from his chest. He led them away from the road, back along the wide path towards the village. But it was a quarter-mile walk from here to Arador, and the beast was already upon them!

Yanking Oswin off the path and taking a sudden, sharp turn to the right, he ran towards the towering oak tree that he and the other children had spent the summer climbing. Its trunk was knotted, with several branches close enough to the ground that even a small child could scale to the top quite rapidly if given the right boost.

"Up, quickly," he urged, leaning down to heave his brother up around the waist and shove him against the thick knots of the tree trunk.

Thankfully, Oswin seemed to get the message and immediately began climbing. The younger boy had always been nimble and quick, and he'd made it several metres up before he paused to glance back down at his brother, who had jumped to grab hold of a branch above his head and pull himself up.

"Alfric?"

"Keep climbing!" he yelled back, scaling the tree as quickly as he could, scraping his the palms of his hands in his urgency but feeling nothing, the blood pounding loudly in his ears. Reaching a secure juncture in the trunk of the tree about halfway up, he looped an arm around the branch above him, and circled the other around his brother's waist, holding him securely, eyes fixed on the ground below.

For a long moment, all was still and silent, save for the boys' heavy breathing. Then a dark form emerged from the tree line, stalking slowly towards the oak, its menacing growl almost deafening in the quiet of the woods. It reached the bottom of the tree and looked up at them, snarling, hackles raised and teeth bared. Afric gripped the branch above him a little tighter, heart pounding against his ribcage. He'd never seen a wolf, nor had he heard of them growing to such a size. This one was as big as a horse! It would swallow Oswin whole and the boy probably wouldn't even touch the sides on the way down.

Beside him, the six-year-old made a strangled, fearful sound in the back of his throat, and Alfric pulled him closer so that his brother's head was pressed against his chest.  
"Don't look, Oswin. It's alright, we're safe up here, it can't reach us."

Beneath them, as if seeking to defy the boy's words, the wolf bent down low to the ground, limbs folding beneath its huge body...

And _pounced._

o~O~o

Lancelot took a deep breath, the air refreshingly chill, and smiled as he shifted the reins into one hand to pat Ailith's neck, admiring the wintry scene around them. In contrast to most folk, he had always preferred the winter months. Descended from a long line of huntsmen, where the colder seasons marked the height of trade with meat and furs in high demand, winter had always been a time of plenty for his family. Most of his fondest memories were associated with snowfall. Not that he'd ever held much talent for skinning and trading. As a boy, he'd always been lost in his own imagination, dreaming of battling dragons and defeating great foes and running of on an adventure with nobody save a horse for company.

And in the end, with his father's blessing (begrudgingly given), that had been precisely what he'd done.

"Be wary underfoot, lads," Gildor cautioned from the head of the group, slowing to a brisk trot as they passed deeper into the western woods. "The ground can be uneven here at the best of times."

"Uneven is exactly what Gwaine needs," Elyan piped up from where he rode alongside Percival, peering over his shoulder to share a grin with Lancelot. "He's still half-asleep, aren't you, Gwaine?"

Lancelot glanced to his left in time to see the bearded knight level Elyan with a scowl that most men would baulk at, but the younger man merely laughed jovially and turned around to face the front again. Lancelot leaned across to give Gwaine a companionable shove.

"Careful," he cautioned, his tone amused. "Your face'll freeze that way if the wind blows too hard."

"Why is everyone so bloody cheerful?" Gwaine grouched, but it was said in good humour. "It wasn't even dawn when we left the city. That's despicable."

Percival glanced back at him, an eyebrow raised. "You didn't eat breakfast this morning, did you?"

Gwaine scowled anew. "There wasn't time."

"If you'd risen with the rest of us, there would've been plenty of time," Lancelot reminded him cheerfully. "But you opted for an extra half-hour in bed."

"Still wasn't enough," the knight grumbled, dragging a hand down his face. "And now I'm hungry to boot. Percival?"

The short-haired knight glanced back at him over his shoulder. "Hm?"

"You an' me have a date with the castle kitchens as soon as-"

"Hold."

The company drew to an abrupt halt at Gildor's barked command, the knights falling silent, hands dropping to the hilts of their swords. Gildor's arm was raised, his gloved hand clenched in a tight fist to indicate that they should hold position, gazing intently at the snow-covered path that lay ahead of them.

"What is it?" Leon asked, his low voice carrying across the silence despite the distance between them. His horse shifted uneasily beside Gildor's, the mare's ears flattening.

"Tracks," the older knight replied. "Of a large, four-legged creature. Fresh."

Ailith shifted with a soft whinny beneath him, ears flat back, and Lancelot drew his sword. "Very fresh, I'd say."

Which was when a child's scream ripped through the air.

.

_TBC_

* * *

_**Yes, I know, I'm a cruel author who enjoys ending chapters on sudden and unexpected cliffies. Whoops!**_

_**Will Alfric and Oswin survive unscathed? Will the knights' luck hold out and allow them to take down a second monstrous wolf in as many days? And will Gwaine ever get to have the lie-in he so craves?...****  
**_

_**On a side-note, 'Fox and Rabbit' is just a game that I invented, although I'm certain similar versions exist. It's basically just tig with a few added phrases. :P**_

_**I'm having far too much fun with my OC's, this chapter was primarily about two characters that you might never see again. But kids are so much fun to write, and I almost regret that there aren't more of them as established characters in the TV series. Not even a cute little squire! I might have to fix that in a future story - Leon would definitely have a squire, he's the mentor type. **_

_**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading! As always, I'd love to hear from you, any feedback would be massively appreciated. And I'll see you all in a couple of weeks!**_

_**xxx**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Hello, dear readers! Again, I can only apologise profusely for the temporary hiatus. But finally the bottomless pit of coursework is (mostly) completed, and after much deliberation I've decided to cut down my working hours so that I'll have more time to breathe (and write). In short - I'm back! :)**_

_**A huge thank-you to all my followers/reviewers/supporters who've maintained such a high level of enthusiasm for this story - your encouragement has helped me to plough through the writer's block this past fortnight. And in further news, 'A Mere Chill' hit 200 followers this month - hell yeah! :D**_

_**And oh, how I've missed writing Merlin/Arthur bromance. There's a lovely big dollop of it later in this chapter, just for you. **_

**On with the story...**

* * *

_.~ Previously ~._

_A dark form emerged from the tree line, stalking slowly towards the oak, its menacing growl almost deafening in the quiet of the woods. It reached the bottom of the tree and looked up at them, snarling, hackles raised and teeth bared. Afric gripped the branch above him a little tighter, heart pounding in his chest. He'd never seen a wolf, nor had he heard of them growing to such a colossal size. This one was as big as a horse! It would swallow Oswin whole and the boy probably wouldn't even touch the sides on the way down._

_Beside him, the six-year-old made a strangled, fearful sound in the back of his throat, and Alfric pulled him closer so that his brother's head was pressed against his chest._  
_"Don't look, Oswin. It's alright, we're safe up here, it can't reach us."_

_Beneath them, as if seeking to defy the boy's words, the wolf bent down low to the ground, limbs folding beneath its huge body..._

_...and **pounced**._

._~ Continued ~_.

Everything within Alfric froze; his blood turned to ice in his veins, stealing the breath from his lungs as his muscles seized up in terror.

He was dimly aware of Oswin's high-pitched cry of fright, of the rough bark of the tree scraping against his palm as he clung to the branch above him for dear life, but his limbs were locked in place, his legs dead weights where they hung over the edge of the branch. He could only watch with wide eyes, heart pounding high in his throat, as the beast's mighty claws struck the tree and gouged deep, tearing through the wood like a hot knife through butter as the weight of the animal pulled it down again.

The wolf snarled, an echoing bark, and circled around the clearing once, twice, before charging at the tree again. Oswin screamed, and this time the sound served to shake Alfric from his state of inertia. He sucked in several rapid, shallow breaths, pulling his brother tighter against him, and tucked his legs up as high as they would go without unseating him from his current perch.

The wolf's claws had sunk deep and true this time, anchoring the beast to the tree, even as its hind legs scrabbled for a purchase, whittling away the bark like hunting knives. Sharp, glinting teeth snapped mere inches beneath where Alfric's feet had hung only moments before. The wolf loomed so close that the boy could see the shadow of the tree branches reflected in the beast's dark eyes, and feel the heat of the foul breath as the steaming clouds rose up in the cold air. The mighty jaws snapped closer, almost brushing the tips of his boots, and Alfric curled up against the bough of the tree, clutching at Oswin and squeezing his eyes tight shut...

_Whoosh-thunk._

With a yelp, the creature fell, hitting the ground with such a force that Alfric could feel the tremor reverberate up through the bough of the tree. The wolf scrabbled in the snow for a moment before rolling to its feet, snarling, one foreleg bent at the joint to keep it off the ground. An arrow protruded from the limb, and even from his vantage point high up in the branches, Alfric could see the scarlet droplets that had begun to stain the snow beneath it.

Then, in a rush of sound and motion, the clearing was suddenly swarming with knights, red cloaks unfurling as they swung down from their mounts. The scrape of metal-against-metal rang out as swords were drawn, and Alfric watched in growing horror, unable to look away, as the monstrous beast snapped and swiped at them.

It pounced at a dark-skinned knight, knocking him to the ground, and the man's sword glinted in the morning sunlight as it went flying from his hand. Before the wolf could sink either teeth or claws into its prey, the other knights advanced and drove it back with sharp steel. Another arrow was loosed, striking the wolf in the throat, and the knights closed in with their blades as it stumbled and fell.

Alfric did look away then, pressing Oswin's face closer to his shoulder, the image of torn flesh and bloodstained snow preserved like a tapestry behind his eyelids.

o~O~o

Wrenching his sword free from the beast's skull, Leon's eyes roamed about the clearing, surveying the rest of the patrol for any sign of injury. Elyan, being assisted to his feet by Gwaine, met his gaze and gave him a small, wry smile.

"I'm alright; the only thing I injured was my pride," he lamented, brushing the clumps of snow from his cloak and breeches.

"Could've sworn you were destined to be the dog's dinner for a moment there," Gwaine remarked with his usual teasing grin, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "Would've been an awful shame...for the wolf, of course. I doubt a puny fellow such as yourself would've satisfied its appetite."

Elyan shoved at him, but the upwards tilt of his mouth made his amusement known. He moved away to retrieve his sword, wincing a little when his bruised back protested.

"I'd wager it only went for me because it took one whiff in your direction and assumed, given the stench, that you were already rotting."

Rather than taking offence at the blatant insult to his personal hygiene, Gwaine threw his head back and laughed.

Perceiving by their usual domestic bickering that both men were unharmed, Leon bid them retrieve the horses, who had startled at the wolf's vicious attack and returned to the relative safety of the road. He waited until they had departed before turning to seek out the elder of their group. Gildor stood some ten paces away, an arrow still notched on his longbow but lowered towards the ground, merely a precautionary measure lest another creature linger nearby. Feeling the weight of Leon's assessing stare, the older man glanced his way with a calm, easy smile.

"Be at ease, brother," the greying knight spoke. "All is well."

Leon inclined his head, then stooped to wipe the blood from his sword as best he could in the snow, before drying it on the leg of his breeches - hardly desirable, but fabric could be washed easily enough, whereas his scabbard could not - and sheathing the blade in a smooth, practised motion. He moved to join Lancelot and Percival at the foot of the towering oak. The taller knight was in the process of setting both cloak and weapons aside quickly, his gazed fixed on the two small figures perched high up in the tree.

"I'll retrieve them," the younger knight announced, but glanced his way all the same, seeking permission.

Not that Leon would ever have considered denying it. He knew of Percival's past; of the younger brothers he had lost to Cenred's army during a raid on his village. The burly, fearless knight was well known for his brute strength and stout heart, but he was also unfailingly gentle when it came to children; he had a calm, easy approach that stemmed from years of experience. Experience in which the rest of the patrol, save Gildor, were severely lacking.

Acknowledging the request with a brisk nod, he extended a hand to take Percival's sword. "Be careful."

The younger man gave him a brief, grateful smile, before turning and bracing his foot on a thick knot in the trunk, boosting himself up. Percival - who was no stranger to the art of tree-climbing, having spent most of his childhood playing in the woods near his village - scaled the oak with ease, and in a matter of seconds had reached the children. Looping an arm loosely over the branch above his head, he used his his free hand to gently grasp the the elder of the two lads by the shoulder. The boy's eyes snapped open, wide and fearful.

"It's alright," he soothed. "You're safe now."

The tension in the lad's posture lessened considerably, his gaze flickering away from Percival and down towards the clearing below, although the knight's frame blocked most of it from view. Percival could see the boy's throat move as he swallowed.

"Is it dead?"

He nodded gravely. "Yes."

"Did...did you kill it?"

Percival's lips curled up at that, into an expression of gentle amusement. "I helped to, yes."

The look in the lad's eyes shifted to something akin to awe. "You're one of Prince Arthur's knights, aren't you?"

"Sir Percival of the Round Table," he answered, inclining his head again. "And who do I have the honour of rescuing?"

"Alfric, my lord," the boy replied, then dropped his gaze to the smaller lad that still clung to him. "And this is my brother, Oswin." His eyes moved back up again, focusing this time on Percival's short-sleeved chainmail. "Don't your arms get cold?"

Percival's smile widened into a fond grin, even as he shook his head. "Not often." Then his gaze grew more serious as he raked his eyes over Oswin, who had remained buried in Alfric's tunic-front. He moved his hand to lightly touch the child's quivering back. "Are you hurt? Either of you?"

Alfric shook his head, carefully loosing his hold around the younger child. "He's just frightened."

The knight gently pried Oswin away from his brother, although the task was made more difficult due to both the determination with which the boy clung to Alfric, and the fact that Percival had to do everything one-handed.

"It's alright, Oswin," he murmured reassuringly. "Alfric will be right behind us. Come; let me introduce you to my brothers. And I'm certain," he added, remembering how the child had been so enamoured with Ailith on their previous patrols, "that Sir Lancelot would be more than happy to let you ride his hor-"

He suddenly found himself half-strangled by a pair of clinging arms, dark brown curls tickling his chin as the boy buried his face in the knight's neck, short legs winding around his torso. Percival smiled at Alfric, who managed a shaky sort of smile in return, amusement at his brother's antics lessening the shock of his recent scare.

The knight descended the tree at a slower pace, mindful of his fragile cargo, but even so it was only a few moments before his boots struck the powdery snow of the forest floor. Leon was at his side immediately, concern creasing his brow as he surveyed the clinging child.

"They're both unharmed," Percival assured him in answer to the unspoken question, rubbing Oswin's back as the boy peeked out to see who he was speaking to. "Just a little shaken up."

Leon nodded, relief making the tense set of his shoulders relax again, and he spared a warm smile for the child, passing a gloved hand briefly over the dark curls, before glancing back up to where Alfric had begun to make his way back down the tree unaided; slowly, shakily, but with a stubborn sort of determination that boys his age tended to possess. When the lad finally reached ground, wavering on trembling legs, Leon stepped forwards quickly to wrap his own cloak about him.

"We'll take you home," he said to the boy, keeping a steadying arm around the narrow shoulders. "I'll need to meet with the village Elders and inform them of the situation."

"What of the beast's corpse?" Gwaine asked, standing several feet away with Lancelot and Elyan, holding onto the horses' reins. "I doubt it's wise to leave it unguarded considering-" His gaze flickered to the shaken lads, and he continued carefully, "Considering what happened to the last one."

"Gwaine's right," Elyan agreed, glancing towards the felled wolf. "One of us should remain behind to guard it, just in case."

"Not alone," Leon insisted. "It isn't safe to be out here without backup."

"Me an' Elyan can guard it, then," came Gwaine's easy reply, the bearded knight lightly thumping his younger companion on the shoulder.

The dark-skinned knight glanced towards Leon and shrugged. "Fine by me."

Percival passed Oswin to Lancelot as the rest of the company made ready to depart, smiling when the boy's shyness immediately dissipated at the sight of the knight's grey mare. During previous patrols, when Arthur had not been pressed for time, they had often been able to stop for a while along the woodland road and greet the lads; the child had always shyly edged towards Lancelot's horse while his older brother eagerly spoke to the prince. Ailith, it seemed, remembered the six-year-old well. Her ears twitched forwards as she stepped closer to the pair, eyes fixed on the boy in her master's arms. Oswin ceased in his attempts to strangle Lancelot with the ferocity of his clinging, instead reaching out a hand so that Ailith could snuffle at his palm. The horse nickered, dipping her head to bump against the hand until Lancelot turned the boy's palm over gently and showed him how to caress her muzzle. The lad's answering smile was wide and genuine, and something tight inside Percival's chest eased at the sight of it. The child couldn't be too traumatised by the experience if he was already smiling.

It wasn't until he had lifted Alfric up onto the saddle of his charcoal-black charger and swung up behind him, until he had nudged the horse into a brisk walk and moved them away from the clearing and the corpse of the wolf, that the true implications of the recent attack began to sink in.

This forest lay just five miles from the city. Naught but farmland lay between here and the outer wall of the lower town; acres of wheat fields and grazing pastures, unprotected save for the patrols that passed along the road periodically. That a dark beast of such power and malice had attacked them at the outpost near the border of the Darkening Woods only yesterday morning was sufficient cause for concern in its own right, but for _another_ of these creatures to have arrived almost at the heart of Camelot without being seen - to have travelled so close to the city itself - worried him greatly.

If one beast had strayed so far from the Darkening Woods, who was to say that a whole pack of them weren't lingering nearby?

"My lord?"

Startled from his grim musings, Percival glanced down at Alfric. "Mm?"

The boy hesitated a moment, fiddling with the clasp of Leon's cloak. Percival saw him glance sideways to where his younger brother was seated in front of Lancelot, pointing at things and keeping up a steady stream of chatter which, judging by Lancelot's smile, was amusing the knight to no end.

"The...the wolf," he hedged after a long moment of silence, "are there others like it in the forest?"

Percival shifted the reins to one hand, wrapping an arm around the boy's narrow frame reassuringly. "Not that I know of, lad. We encountered a similar creature once before, near the Darkening Woods. Hunger must have driven it further afield; harsh winters often do that to hunters."

"But it didn't try to kill the livestock," Alfric pressed hesitantly. "There are flocks of sheep not two miles from here, and plenty of cattle in the fields behind my village. Why...why would a wolf ignore such easy pickings and try to eat _us_ instead?"

For such a question, Percival had no answer. The truth of the matter was, he could not fathom it himself. The boy was right; a creature driven from the Darkening Woods by winter's starvation would not leave the livestock untouched. And judging by the beast's stout stature, lack of nourishment had not been an issue. _Why_, then, had it lingered in the forest?

With a short, grim sigh, he gave the boy another reassuring squeeze. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

o~O~o

Arthur's expression was thunderous, despite the dark flush sitting high in his pale cheeks and the unfocused glaze to his eyes. The prince had levered himself up onto his elbows, blankets and furs still cocooned around him, and seemed to be trying to set fire to Merlin's neckerchief, judging by the sheer ferocity of his glare.

The warlock held up his hands in a placating manner. "Arthur-"

"Explanation," the prince bit out, voice hoarse and cracked but infused with kingly command. "Now."

Merlin shifted a little, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach as he glanced down at the tray of breakfast things he had carried up from the kitchens, straightening the cutlery on the napkin needlessly, simply to give his hands something to do.

"_Merlin._"_  
_

There was another brief pause, wherein Merlin steeled himself both physically and mentally before he moved away from the table to lean against one of the wooden posts at the foot of Arthur's bed.

"I didn't wake you because you needed to sleep," he answered simply, opting for a more straightforward approach. "I figured it was better to let your body decide how much rest it needed."

"You figured," Arthur echoed, managing to sound scathing even with the painful rasp in his voice. "And I suppose it never occurred to you that by allowing me to laze about in bed all morning, I would be shirking my duties?"

Merlin's resolve wavered for a moment, but then Arthur lifted a hand to his throat to massage it as though trying to soothe a deep ache, and he steeled himself anew.

"You have a duty to yourself too, you know," he remarked. "You're not much use to anyone if you keel over in the middle of the throne room."

"I have a duty to my _people_, Merlin," the prince argued, his voice rising. "To the men under my command. What sort of example do I set by sitting on my backside doing nothing?"

"It was only the morning patrol," Merlin reasoned. "Leon and Gildor are more than capable of leading the riding party in a loop around the western villages, _without_ your supervision."

Arthur's eye twitched. Honest-to-gods _twitched__. _So, naturally, Merlin did what Merlin does best and put his foot right in it.

"It's not like you were an _essential_ member of the-"

_"Enough!_"

Merlin winced at how painfully raw Arthur's throat sounded. Judging by his friend's grimace, the prince had discovered that shouting was an inadvisable tactic, given his current state of ill health.

"Arthur, be reasonable," the warlock pressed when the older man lapsed into silence to allow his throat to rest momentarily. "You're hardly in a fit state to go out riding, surely you can see that? The decision was for the best."

"The decision," Arthur ground out through clenched teeth, "was not yours to make."

"Well _someone_ had to make it." Merlin was fast losing patience, but he kept his temper in check with a steely resilience born of several years of experience in dealing with the prince's particular affliction of stubbornness. "You're _ill_, Arthur, and by refusing to acknowledge your own limitations, you're putting yourself at risk of developing something far more serious. You need to _rest_, not go gallivanting off into the mid-winter frost on a routine patrol."

Arthur scoffed. "Nonsense, I'm perfectly fi-"

The statement was cut short, and thoroughly disproved, by a series of deep, bark-like coughs that sounded wet and painful. Once triggered, more followed, and Arthur pushed himself further upright in bed to take the weight off his chest, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as his face flushed a darker pink, sweat beading on his forehead. Merlin winced in sympathy and moved back to the table to poor the prince a cup of warm milk, sweetened with honey. He fetched a clean handkerchief from the chest of drawers, passing it to the ailing man as he returned to the bedside so that Arthur could cough into it.

"See? You're not 'fine'," the warlock said grimly, tugging a few pillows behind Arthur's back to support his weight as he coughed.

The prince shot him a watery-eyed glare of denial.

Merlin sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and waiting for the coughing fit to subside. This one had lasted a great deal longer than the others, and his own chest ached in sympathy, but perhaps _now _Arthur would see how serious the situation had become.

When Arthur finally sucked in a shallow, tremulous breath and removed the handkerchief from his mouth, Merlin surreptitiously glanced at the sputum with a critical physician's eye, relieved to find that it was free of blood and of a lighter hue than he had anticipated. He allowed himself to relax marginally.

"Here," he said, pressing the cup of milk into Arthur's hand; a peace offering. "It's warm, it'll ease your throat."

Arthur swiped the back of his other hand across his watering eyes, his breathing ragged, and took a sip of the beverage. He scooted backwards an inch or so to lean against the headboard, sitting upright to ease his breathing, head tilted back and eyes slipping closed briefly in exhaustion.

"Alright," he croaked eventually, lifting the cup to his lips again. "So I might have caught a mild chill." He downed the rest of the milk in several large gulps, apparently finding himself parched. Merlin plucked the empty cup from his lax fingers and rose from the bed to refill it. "You needn't fuss so much," the prince continued, peeling back a layer or two of blankets to cool himself off after his coughing fit. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"It's not _nothing_," Merlin insisted, slamming the pitcher back down onto the tray and immediately feeling guilty when Arthur winced at the loud '_clang_'. He took a calming breath, returning to the bedside and handing over the filled cup. "You can barely talk, you sound like you're hacking up a lung every time you cough, I'd hazard a guess from the way you reacted when I first opened your curtains that you've got the drums of hell pounding in your skull, and you've been sweating out a high fever all night. I haven't seen you this ill in _years_."

Arthur was silent for a moment after the rant, squinting at Merlin over the rim of his cup with an expression that the warlock couldn't quite determine. After a pause, the prince cocked his head a little to one side.

"You were here last night?" he asked, curious. "While I was asleep?"

"Not the _whole_ night," Merlin mumbled, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic. "I just...popped my head in every now and then. Had to make sure you hadn't conked it in your sleep."

Arthur's expression smoothed over, and after a moment his lips curled up into a familiar teasing smile. "Didn't know you cared so much, Merlin."

"Yeah, well," Merlin gave a casual shrug. "It's notoriously tricky to find alternative employment at this time of year, you know. Didn't want all that extra hassle. Besides," he fished the glass vial from his pocket, "I'd miss the look on your face every time you drank one of these."

The prince eyed the black liquid within warily. "Will it taste as awful as last night's concoction?"

"Oh no," Merlin assured, uncorking the vial handing it over, waiting until Arthur had lifted it to his lips and tipped it before continuing, "this one's much, much worse."

Arthur clamped his lips together, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth in an attempt to keep from gagging as he forced himself to swallow. He took several large gulps of sweetened milk to rid his mouth of the bitter taste, thrusting the empty vial back towards his manservant.

"I ought to cut your wages," he threatened, the words mumbled into his beverage as he took another sip. "Or throw you in the stocks for insolence. See how much you like that."

"See how much you like shoe polish in your sandwiches," Merlin countered without missing a beat, corking the vial again and slipping it back into his pocket. He rose, moving over to the hearth to stoke a little life back into the dwindling flames

"Oh, so now you're threatening to poison me?" Arthur lowered the goblet, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. "I thought you were the one being overly paranoid about my health?"

The poker was too heavy for his right hand, which still ached after his unpleasant encounter with Sir Hugh earlier that morning, and he ended up fumbling with it. It hit the stone lip of the hearth with a resounding '_clang_'.

"Realistic," the warlock corrected, reaching to pick up the poker with his left hand instead. "I'm being _realistic_ about your health. And at least you might stay in bed and rest if you've been poisoned."

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him, although there was a certain wariness about his gaze that made Merlin uncomfortable. "Or I'd be dead. Permanently resting."

"Oi! I'm good with potions. I'd be careful with the dosage."

"That's very reassuring, thank you, Merlin," Arthur drawled, although his lips were twitching up at the corners. "It's good to know that my manservant is capable of committing high treason, given the right motivation."

Merlin grinned back at him cheerfully. "Welcome." He stood, brushing off his left hand on his breeches, and crossed the room to uncover the dishes on the breakfast tray. "Hungry?"

Arthur grunted non-committally, peeling back the rest of the bedclothes and slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "What is there?"

"I didn't think you'd be keen for meats and hard cheeses, so there's porridge and stewed apples," he replied, indicating the two bowls. "But I can ask the cook for something else?"

The prince waved away the suggestion, bracing a hand against the bedpost as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "No, porridge sounds...fine, actually. Good. Thank you."

Merlin feigned surprise. "Gratitude? Before breakfast?"

"Shut up," Arthur grumbled, but it lacked any real bite. He moved over to the table and sat down slowly, plucking at the front his tunic with a grimace. "Ugh. I feel disgusting."

"Mm, you look it," Merlin agreed, then danced out of the way, grinning, when a bare foot shot out to kick him. "Well, I did try to persuade you to change into your sleeping clothes last night, but you weren't listening."

"No need to sound so smug about it, Merlin." Arthur stirred honey into his porridge slowly, one elbow braced on the table, chin propped up in his hand. He heaved a long, bone-weary sigh. "I need a bath."

"You're not having a bath," Merlin told him, moving over to his wardrobe to fetch a fresh shirt and a pair of soft breeches.

Arthur frowned sleepily around a mouthful of breakfast. "Says who?"

He shut the wardrobe door with his hip, laying the clothes over the back of one of the empty chairs. "I do. And Gaius would too, if he were here. It'll only aggravate your chest." He leaned his hip against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest before thinking better of it and letting them hang down by his sides again. "I'll send for a basin of water, you can have a wash."

"Yes, _mother_."

Resisting the childish urge to stick his tongue out at the man, Merlin set to work changing the sheets on Arthur's bed. A night of Arthur sweating out his fever had left the bottommost blankets damp to the touch, so he stripped the bed of everything but the furs and bundled it all up at the foot of Arthur's bed to be collected by the laundry-maid at noon. Laying down clean sheets proved to be a lot more difficult when Merlin had to limit himself to using only one arm, and Arthur was leaning back in his chair and watching him silently by the time he had settled the last pillow into place.

He straightened, an uneasy sort of feeling in his stomach at being pinned under Arthur's assessing stare. Even with his eyes bloodshot and ringed by bruised half-circles, the look was still just as effective.

"Sire?"

Arthur took a sip of milk, his gaze still speculative. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"What? Nothing." He wiggled the fingers of both hands. His right wrist twinged, but he'd ploughed through worse before with a smile on his face. "See?"

Arthur frowned at him a moment, suspicious, then extended a hand towards him. "Let me see."

"It's nothing serious, Arthur, I promise," Merlin insisted, all too aware that the bruises along his wrist and forearm were distinctly finger-shaped and would lead to awkward questions. "I just strained it carrying a...big pot."

The prince raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and kept his hand outstretched expectantly. "If it's only a strain, then you won't mind showing it to me, will you?"

Merlin was just beginning to fabricate a fantastically imaginative and realistic tale in his mind to explain away the bruises when a sudden, frantic pounding on the door had Arthur surging to his feet. The prince was forced to immediately grip the back of his chair when a wave of dizziness assaulted him, so Merlin crossed to the door in his stead, opening it.

One of the young squires stood on the other side, still dressed for patrol in his winter cloak and leather gloves, a training sword - shorter and lighter than the blade most knights carried - strapped to his belt. He was gasping for breath, clearly having run all the way from the courtyard, his auburn fringe sticking to his forehead with perspiration.

The manservant reached for him, worry making his heart seize up in his chest. "Marcus, what-?"

"Merlin!" the younger man exclaimed, latching onto his arm tightly (and _fie_, that hurt). "Merlin, please, you _must_ come quickly, I couldn't find Gaius and we need a-" He broke off suddenly, having spied Arthur over on the other side of the room, and gave a quick, shallow bow. "Forgive me, Sire, I did not see you."

Arthur dismissed the apology quickly with a wave of his hand. "What happened?" he asked instead, concern creasing his brow. "Is someone hurt?"

Marcus nodded frantically, shaking hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Sir Kay broke his arm, Sire, and took a blow to the head. And Sir Aiden..."

The prince moved closer to the young squire when the boy trembled visibly. "It's alright, Marcus, catch your breath a moment," he spoke; gently, patiently. He waited until the younger man had taken several deep, calming breaths before prompting, "And what of Sir Aiden? Is he badly hurt?"

"No. Not hurt, Sire." Marcus ran a shaking hand through his hair as he swallowed heavily, eyes over-bright. "Sir Aiden is dead."

_~.~_

* * *

_**UNEXPECTED CHARACTER DEATH**_

_**But I was nice and didn't make it one of my regular characters. ;) Gildor was a potential casualty for a little while, but I decided I liked him too much, and there are too many unwritten child!Arthur fics that feature him as a prominent character, and I'd hate to make myself cry every time I wrote them.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Updates should hopefully be more regular now (at least once a fortnight, if not more frequently), so stay tuned for chapter 8. As always, I appreciate any and all feedback, even the negative stuff, so feel free to review and let me know what you think. **_

_**And as an additional note - after several requests, I will be writing the story alluded to in 'One Of Us', where Leon (a young knight-in-training) is charged with minding Arthur for the day, and our troublesome princeling ends up falling down a well. For those who enjoy the rarely-seen parental!Uther, you might like this one. I hope to have that particular one-shot posted by the end of May.**_

_**Until next week, mes amis! xxx**_


	8. Chapter 8

**_An update! And just about on schedule! 'Tis a miracle!_**

**_Firstly, a huge thank-you for the wonderfully positive response to last week's chapter. I don't think I've ever received so many PM's in my life! I'm really glad to be back, and it warms my heart to know that all you lovely chaps are happy to have me back, too. I'm sending grapefruit to all of you! Secondly, a special thank-you to the anons who reviewed, because I can't reply to you personally and I want to let you know how much I appreciate hearing from each and every one of you. :)_**

**_And lastly, a shout-out to my good friend Annie, who's stuck in hospital this week and bored out of her mind. I hope this chapter helps to alleviate that boredom, even for a short while!_**

**_Enjoy, mes amis. :)_**

* * *

"How many, Darius?"

"Eight, Sire," the knight reported, his tone grave. "The villagers were wholly unprepared; seven lay dead already by the time our patrol arrived. The wolves were quick, attacking without mercy. Sir Aiden baited them, drew them away from the village to give the people a chance to flee to the safety of their homes, but many had scattered across the fields in their panic. He sought to anger the beasts, to turn them upon himself before leading them towards our patrol, that we might fell them in a tighter formation."

The man rubbed a hand back and forth across his bearded chin, turning his eyes towards the activity of the courtyard, sorrow evident in his gaze. "His act of bravery saved many, but ultimately cost him his life. We could not fell the beasts with arrows alone, and one man against four of those _things_..."

Mouth set in a grim line, Arthur glanced across the courtyard to where a prone figure, swathed in red cloaks, had been transferred onto a makeshift pallet. The prince watched as the pallet was lifted and braced upon the shoulders of four of his men, before they turned to bear it up the stone steps in a slow, sombre procession, and disappeared into the castle.

"Never in all my years have I seen such dark creatures," Darius spoke into the silence, anger and grief sharpening his words. He turned his gaze towards Arthur again, eyes hard. "They left the herds untouched, Sire. Sheep and cattle, grazing not a hairsbreadth from the people's homesteads, and yet the wolves sought to slaughter the villagers."

Arthur passed a hand down his face, trying to dispel the heavy fatigue that still clung to him. "Perhaps the men fought back," he suggested pensively. "Perhaps the wolves were given reason to ignore the livestock."

"Nay." Darius shook his head grimly. "Those who lay dead bore no weapons. They were farmers, woodsmen, craftsmen; simple folk. Many, it seemed, had not been aware of the wolves' presence until it was too late. They had no warning."

The prince's gloveless hands curled into fists briefly, then relaxed again. The bitter chill of the winter wind gnawed at his exposed skin, but he welcomed it; the cold bite was a gratifying distraction from the building turmoil of emotions within him.

"And what of the creatures?" he asked after a beat. "Did you dispose of the corpses?"

The knight hesitated long enough for Arthur's brow to crease fractionally, a wariness returning to the prince's fever-glazed eyes.

"Darius?"

With a closed-off expression, the older man wordlessly untethered a sackcloth bundle from his belt and presented it to Arthur. "There were no corpses, Sire. Only these."

Arthur took the tightly-bound package, carefully untying the thin leather cord and lifting each corner-flap one by one, the weight of the bundle resting in the palm of one hand. Something cold and liquid pooled in his stomach as he stared at its contents, swallowing forcefully past the raw, painful lump in his throat.

Cradled in the cloth, four tiny wolves peered back at him with unseeing wooden eyes.

o~O~o

Merlin pressed the goblet of spiced wine into the youth's shaking hands, squatting down in front of the chair to survey him closely. "Marcus. Are you sure you're alright?"

The auburn-haired squire nodded stiffly, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the steaming beverage in his grasp. Merlin sighed - a sharp, worried exhale through his nose - and stood upright again, lightly squeezing the younger man's shoulder as he turned back towards the bed. Leaning over its sole occupant to lift the herb-infused compress from his brow, he studied Sir Kay's wound carefully.

"The swelling has gone down," he spoke aloud, merely to break the heavy silence that hung in the air like an ill omen. "And his pulse is strong. He'll regain consciousness soon enough, you'll see."

Grateful that the men who had borne the injured knight up to his chambers had lingered long enough to help Merlin wrestle Kay from his chainmail and tunic, the warlock laid his hand to rest on the man's breastbone. He could feel the faint thrum of a strong, steady heartbeat through the thin material of Kay's nightshirt, and measure the depth and speed of the knight's breathing in the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, he ran skilled fingers along the man's left bicep, checking for any undue redness or swelling above the forearm, which had been splinted and tightly bound with strips of cloth to help the bone mend straight. Sir Kay had been fortunate in that the break had been a clean one; the limb would be good as new in the better part of two months, provided he kept the arm immobile.

"Is the Lady Morgana to blame for this?"

Merlin gave a start at the sudden question, turning to look at the young squire. Marcus met his gaze unflinchingly, eyes still dull but slowly regaining their focus. The warlock swallowed, forcing an outward calm through years of practice, despite the sickening lurch he had experienced at the mention of the witch's name.

"Why do you ask?"

Marcus's gaze returned to his cup, his thumb tracing the rim in thought. "The creatures were born of magic," he answered after a pause. "They had to be. Normal wolves don't grow to be the size of horses."

"They could've come from the Darkening Woods," Merlin reasoned carefully, folding a long strip of cloth into a compact square and soaking it in the herbal tincture he'd left to warm by the fire. "We have no reason to believe that magic played a part in-"

"Normal wolves," Marcus continued in an even tone, although his voice wavered a little, "do not turn into wooden trinkets moments after battle."

"_What?_"

The squire glanced up again at the sharp reply, before averting his gaze and taking a tentative sip of the wine. "I may have neglected to mention that part beforehand."

Mind reeling with this new information, Merlin almost dropped the fresh compress. He recovered quickly, however, and pressed it to Sir Kay's injured brow, smoothing it down with fingers that threatened to tremble. His heart was pounding something fierce against his breastbone, the tightness in his chest making each breath shallow and painful.

"You didn't burn the carcasses first?" he queried after a moment, once he had managed to school his expression into something that resembled calm. When Marcus shook his head, he pressed, keenly, "Then they transformed in front of you? You saw it?"

Marcus nodded slowly. "We all did. It happened a matter of seconds after the last creature had been slain. The bodies were there one moment, and the next..." He paused, shaking his head as though doubting his own recollection of the event. "Naught but blood-stained snow and wooden toys remained. I would've thought myself mad, had Sir Darius not witnessed it beside me."

Merlin crossed the room to where the servants had left a basin of hot water and a towel on Sir Kay's desk, washing his hands slowly and thoroughly to give himself time to think. With his back turned to Marcus, he allowed his expression to darken, brow creasing and lips thinning as the gravity of the situation began to sink in. He had assumed, from the events that had transpired the previous day, that the beast's transformation had been linked to the heat of the fire. It was often the case with such curses. Dark sorcery was a practice he avoided at all costs, but he at least had a preliminary knowledge of the art. "_To win the battle against dark magic,"_ Gaius had told him not long after Morgana's betrayal, _"you must first understand it. How can you hope to defeat what you cannot comprehend?"_

It was advice that he had taken immediately to heart. Which was why he had been so _certain_ that fire had been the key to counteract whatever powerful curse had been cast over the wooden carvings. But to discover that the wolves - _four_ of them at once, gods' damnation - had undergone the transformation without any external catalyst...fie, now he had _nothing_. No weapon to use against them, save swords and arrows, but what use were mortal blades against an enemy who was never truly alive to begin with?

And then there was Gilderoth. The sorcerer of ancient legend who had forged the _Mæsthleon_ from the earth to do his bidding. What if Gaius' fears were proven to be true, and Gilderoth _was_ immortal? What if these attacks were only the beginning of his quest to retake the five kingdoms he had once ruled?

All at once, Merlin longed for Lancelot's company. He needed to voice his concerns to _someone_, and while Gaius tended to be his first port of call, what he really wanted right now was a friendly shoulder to lean on, someone to poke fun at him for thinking too much and distract him with teasing barbs until he forgot what he was worrying about in the first place. Once he finished up here, he would seek out Lancelot - the man was likely helping the stablehands soothe the spooked horses, given his natural gift with the animals - and tell him everything. About Gilderoth, about the origin of the wolves, about Sir Hugh and his less-than-civil behaviour...

"How is he?"

Merlin gave another start at the voice, turning quickly towards the door, summoning a reassuring smile for the prince as Arthur stepped further into the room, his bloodshot eyes focused on the injured knight.

"The break was clean," the warlock replied, drying his hands off carefully before joining Arthur at the foot of Sir Kay's bed. "And while he took nasty knock to the head, he's shown no sign of deterioration. I'm certain he'll waken within the hour."

Arthur inclined his head, relief evident in the way his posture relaxed at Merlin's words. He turned his gaze to the youth waiting at the bedside, Marcus having stood from his chair the moment Arthur had walked through the door. Rounding the bed to stand beside him, the prince clasped his shoulder lightly, ducking his head a little to be more on-level with the lad.

"Darius tells me you held your ground admirably," he spoke, albeit hoarsely, pride seeping into his voice as he graced the youth with a small, approving smile. "I understand that this was your first taste of battle?"

Marcus gave a shallow, tentative nod. "Yes, Sire."

"I'm certain Kay will be proud of you," Arthur continued, his tone softening to ease the squire's nerves. "The rest of the patrol certainly are. As am I."

The youth ducked his head, but even from several feet away Merlin could see the pleased flush that bloomed in his pale cheeks. It made the manservant smile, despite the fear that still clenched at his heart regarding the new threat to Camelot. Arthur might goad and, ultimately, humiliate the presumptuous young nobleman who came to the city with delusions of grandeur regarding their own skill with a sword, but the prince had ever been patient with the many squires who lived and trained and served under his knights. Arthur had, of course, been a squire himself as a boy, in keep with the ancient Pendragon tradition. Although how Gildor had kept the prince alive during his years of training was a true mystery; apparently Arthur's propensity to throw himself headlong into danger had begun long before manhood, when the sword in his hand had been a wooden one.

Merlin watched as Arthur effortlessly eased the youth down from his post-battle jitters, listening attentively and with a grave, serious expression as Marcus recounted the incident from his own experience, the prince's hand never once leaving the squire's shoulder. By the time Marcus had finished speaking, he had regained a little more of his natural colour, and stood with his shoulders squared, the tremors gone from his hands. His goal achieved, Arthur gave the younger man's shoulder a parting squeeze before dropping his hand and taking a step back.

"I'm afraid Merlin must attend to other duties," he said, with an easy sort of formality. "Will you watch over Sir Kay in his stead, until he or Gaius returns?"

Merlin saw the request for what it was; Arthur had given the lad an viable excuse to remain with his mentor for as long as he needed to. And with the task being appointed to him from such a position of authority, none would question it or try to send the youth away from the knight's bedside.

Marcus, ever sound of mind, seemed to realise this as well; his expression was a war between relief and gratitude even as he inclined his head in acceptance.  
"Of course, Sire."

The prince graced him with another quiet, approving smile, then turned and strode for the door, indicating with a casual gesture for Merlin accompany him. The warlock gave a quick nod, then began listing clear instructions to Marcus regarding Kay's care, walking backwards slowly so that he could see the squire's expression and gage his understanding.

"And send for me if he wakes up," he added, pausing in the doorway with his fingers on the iron handle. "Or if anything seems amiss. And _sit down_, Marcus, your feet'll fall off."

The younger man finally managed a smile at that, easing down into his chair at the beside again. Satisfied that the youth would be all right in his absence, Merlin closed the door quietly and hurried along the corridor to catch up with Arthur. The prince spared a sidelong glance at him, a look that said _'what took you so long?'_, but Merlin could tell that it was just for show. They walked in silence for a while, although the warlock was unsure of their exact destination. Rather than asking, however, he took advantage of Arthur's apparent mental preoccupation and studied his friend surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye.

The pink bloom of fever still remained, staining Arthur's cheekbones faintly, and perspiration had darkened his fringe where it lay against his brow near the hairline. His breathing, while shallow and a little too rapid to be dismissed as normal, wasn't the audible rasp it had been during his sleep last night. Perhaps the extended hours of rest had done the trick, and his health was improving? Merlin harboured secret doubts in that regard - because this was Arthur, and nothing was ever simple when it came to a Pendragon - but he allowed himself to relax marginally all the same. He would continue to monitor the prince closely, of course, but the situation was no longer as critical as he had initially deemed it to be.

"Where are we going?" he asked eventually, when Arthur had led them in a full half-circle of the castle and up two floors.

"I left my sword in my chambers," Arthur said, by way of an answer.

The younger man blinked, then eyed the prince with a wary sort of look. "And you need your sword because...?"

"Because we're going out riding." Turning the corner sharply when the corridor branched off in two different directions, he strode towards his chambers with an air of determination.

"What?" Merlin jogged to keep up with him, almost crashing into Arthur's back when the prince stopped suddenly to open his door.

"George is preparing the horses as we speak," Arthur continued briskly, moving across the room to snatch up his sword and gloves from the trunk at the foot of his bed. "Fetch something warmer to wear, you'll catch your death without a cloak."

Merlin, his expression caught somewhere between incredulous and flabbergasted, stared at him mutely for a moment before shaking his head and moving closer to lay a hand on Arthur's arm, stilling his motions as the knight began fastening the sword to his belt.

"Arthur, you can't seriously be thinking of leaving the castle after what's happened?" he reasoned, genuinely concerned for a moment that the fever had boggled his friend's mind and impeded his judgement. "I understand that you're upset about Aiden, I do...but what can you possibly hope to achieve by galloping off across the kingdom? We don't even know who - or what - we're up against."

The prince's brow creased fractionally, then he shook his head. "This isn't about Aiden, Merlin. I haven't completely taken leave of my senses; not yet." He fastened the cloak about his shoulders, over his suit of mail, expression grim. "It's almost noon, and we've still heard no word from Leon and the others. I need to find them."

"They're not back yet." The realisation hit him with a sickening jolt, and he felt the colour drain from his face.

Arthur's eyes flickered up to him, his hands stilling. "You didn't know?"

Merlin shook his head, mind racing with images of his friends ambushed, hurt, _dead_, and he had to take a steadying breath before he could reach for whatever remained of his inner calm. Perhaps they had been delayed for perfectly innocent reasons. He absolutely did _not_ allow himself to dwell upon the fact that Leon was perhaps the most punctual individual Merlin had ever met, to the extent that he had even apologised for his tardiness following his late return to Camelot after being brought back from death's door by the Cup of Life.

A hand settled on shoulder, warm and heavy, and he glanced up to see that Arthur's expression, once hard with determination, had softened.

"We'll find them," his friend promised, and while his voice sounded painfully hoarse, there was no mistaking the note of reassurance and sincerity. He squeezed Merlin's shoulder once, then nodded towards the door. "Go fetch a cloak. And bring your satchel."

And while he did not tack on '_in case someone's been hurt'_, the words were implied clearly enough, and it made Merlin's stomach twist anew. With a nod, the younger man pivoted on the spot and strode from the room, trying not to let himself focus on the worst-case scenarios, forming a comprehensive list of all the plausible, tame reasons why the patrol could have been delayed for such an extended period of time.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts and fears that he failed to acknowledge the sound of booted feet approaching him from the adjoining corridor and did not, therefore, think to slow his fast, anxious pace. Consequently, he rounded the corner at a determined march and collided rather forcefully with a dark-haired individual, almost sending them both sprawling. Stumbling to regain his balance, an apology on the tip of his tongue, he tried to continue on past the other man, but a pair of hands caught him by the shoulders before he could take another step.

"Where's the fire?" an amused voice teased, white teeth flashing in a gentle smile.

Merlin blinked, turned, _looked,_ and felt the anxiety flood out of him a sudden, exhausting rush. He let his hands settle on the other man's forearms for a moment, grasping tightly as though checking that he was made of flesh and bone and not merely an apparition.

"You're back!" he blurted, then yanked the knight forward in as tight a hug as he could manage.

Lancelot's chainmail was cold from the winter air, and the hilt of his sword dug into Merlin's hip, but the manservant barely noticed. It was a bloody good hug.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" the warlock demanded, smiling despite himself, although the laughter in his voice may have bordered on hysteric.

Pulling back after a moment, Lancelot surveyed him closely. The knight's expression betrayed his surprise at Merlin's unusually _intense_ greeting, but there was an underlying concern there too, and a soft sort of warmth to his gaze as he slid his hands over the younger man's shoulders and down his arms, clasping lightly beneath the elbow as though to support his friend.

"What's wrong?" the knight asked after beat, eyes narrowing fractionally. "Did something happen?"

Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, feeling his usual calm return to him now that his fears had been disproved. "The eastern patrol was attacked," he answered gravely. "Sir Kay was injured, and Sir Aiden..."

Lancelot's eyes darkened, his expression going blank. "Slain?" he asked, voice soft. At Merlin's nod, he exhaled a harsh sigh and turned his head to one side, jaw working as he ground his teeth together. "How?"

"Wolves," Merlin replied grimly. "Four of them. They attacked the village of Henwick, slaughtered seven villagers within minutes of arriving. Aiden was the first to reach them; led them away across the fields, towards the approaching patrol. They were too fast, too many, and his horse couldn't outrun them." He squeezed Lancelot's arm in return, swallowing to clear his throat before continuing, "When Arthur told me you and the others had yet to return, I thought...I assumed..."

The knight returned his gaze to the warlock, his expression grave. "I'm afraid an attack _was_ the reason for our delay. We encountered one of the wolves near the village of Woodcott. It had been after those two young lads who wait for us there near the road."

Merlin felt fear gripping at his heart again, out of concern for both the children and the other members of the patrol. "Are they alright? Was anyone hurt?"

Lancelot shook his head quickly. "They're fine; everyone's fine," he promised soothingly. His expression turned serious again. "We brought another wooden carving home with us. Elyan and Gwaine said it happened before they'd even started building a pyre - one moment it was a beast of flesh and bone, and the next a mere statue. Leon and Gildor are securing it in the dungeons as we speak, but-"

"Oi! Peasant-boy!" Gwaine's voice boomed cheerfully, echoing along the corridor as the man sauntered up behind Lancelot. Grinning, he slung an arm around the warlock's shoulders. "Thought you were supposed to be babysitting the princess?"

The grin slid from his face as he sensed the grave moods of his companions, dark eyebrows drawing together as he glanced from one man to the other.

"What? Did I miss something?"

"Rather a lot, I'm afraid," Merlin replied grimly, before tugging on the arms of both men. "Come on. We'd better let Arthur know you're alright before he goes gallivanting off to rescue you."

o~O~o

"I cannot even begin to fathom how you managed to fail the task so _disastrously_. Were the instructions unclear?"

The dark-haired knight, accustomed to the hard tone after long years of service, barely flinched at the words.

"Circumstances changed," he replied flatly. He would not grovel or beg forgiveness, as Aggravaine no doubt hoped he would. "Prince Arthur chose not to ride out with his merry band of dogs, and I could hardly have released one of the creatures in the castle."

The older man ceased his pacing and turned to fix him with a dark glower. "Then why did you not abort the attempt? Why awaken the beast at all if the plan was no longer feasible?"

"It was too late, by the time I found out," the knight replied, his voice tight with restraint as anger boiled beneath the surface. "The deed had already been done."

"And what, pray tell, is your excuse for the bloodshed in Henwick?"

Averting his gaze, eyes narrowed, the sallow-faced knight curled his hand around the hilt of his sword and remained silent.

"_Hugh._"

The knight ground his teeth together, then bit out, "He knows. The boy. He saw how I reacted to the news that Arthur had remained behind. I couldn't have him suspecting me, I couldn't allow the beast's attack to be an isolated incident. I knew the eastern road would lead Sir Kay's patrol past the village of Henwick, so I merely made certain that another creature would awaken in the woods nearby."

"But _four?_" the nobleman pressed, voice rising. "What in the name of the gods possessed you to awaken four at once?"

Sir Hugh glared over at the hearth, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "I lost my temper. And if you're so concerned about the death toll, you can do the dirty work yourself."

"You've put the kingdom on high alert, you utter _fool_," Aggravine hissed, spittle flying as he emphasised the insult vehemently. "Arthur will be on his guard now more than ever, and he'll double the patrol numbers. It will be nigh impossible to continue with the original plan."

Hugh gave an easy, unperturbed shrug. "Then we change the plan. Or perhaps I should end our agreement here and now. I've already done far more than you paid me to do."

The nobleman pinned him with with a dark look. "You swore under oath that Arthur would die at your hands. My Lady would not react favourably if you failed to follow through."

The knight felt a twinge of unease at the mention of the absent Pendragon witch, but hid it well."Then cease your constant meddling and allow me to carry out her orders," he grumbled, before tacking on a simpering, "My lord."

Aggravaine stared at him a moment more, then turned to observe the view from his window, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Go. And do not fail me again."

.

* * *

**_With the kingdom under threat from a force he cannot control, how will Arthur cope in the coming days? How does one wage war with creatures that do not exist? And will anyone uncover Sir Hugh's villainous plot in time to save the prince?_**

**_Of course they will, I'd never kill off Arthur. Seriously maim, perhaps, but never kill. ;)_**

_**I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I have another deadline coming up next week, so it'll likely be closer to a fortnight before you hear from me again. Fear not, the chapter will be extra long in recompense. :)**_

_**Adios!**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_I have returned! *party streamers*_**

**_My academic work is finally finished, my dissertation submitted and my university education complete. Huzzah! And while I'll still be working full time over the summer, I don't have to dedicate 100% of my days off to research, so I'm free to write. :)_**

**_The short story about the adventures of wee!Arthur and newly appointed knight/babysitter Leon has turned into an epic saga. I'm contemplating starting a mini-series, but I'll see how things roll. The first instalment should be posted in a week, so stay tuned!_**

**_Many thanks for all your lovely reviews, favourites and PM's – this story is now topping 250 followers! *fans self* Goodness gracious! I could start my own civilisation with those numbers. :P Apologies to those reviewers who did not receive personal replies, I completely lost track of who I'd contacted. I still love you!_**

**_Now, here's a whopper of a chapter for you. 5000 words, y'all. _**

* * *

_Emrys_.

The voice was deep, ancient, as though spoken from the roots of the earth itself. It echoed, the name carried in whispers by the wind; a chilling breeze that teased the flickering flames of the torches that lined the dark corridor.

_Come, Emrys._

He shivered, bare feet moving soundlessly against the stone floor as he followed the voice deeper and deeper into the stony bowels of the castle, passing through a never-ending maze of twisted passageways, the light growing steadily dimmer around him. A spiral staircase appeared before him, descending into the dungeons, leading him down, down, down, until the light from the torches on the upper landing were mere pinpricks in the inky blackness above; blinking stars in a clear night's sky.

_Come to me. _

That voice again; the words whispered in a foreign tongue, ancient as the dawn of time, and yet their meaning was known to him – a resonance from the core of his being. It was an intrinsic understanding born only of magic, and he feared it – feared that primal, instinctual force within him, entwined with his very existence. Now it urged him to continue on, to seek out the owner of the voice, and he was powerless to resist it, his feet carrying him there of their own volition.

The dungeon was unusually dark, lit by a single, fading torch at the far end of the corridor. Merlin moved forwards cautiously, squinting through the dim light to peer into the cells.

_Emrys…_

"I'm here," he replied, but his voice didn't carry as it ought to have done, didn't echo off the stone walls. It was muffled – _stifled_ by the air itself - and Merlin suddenly sensed, despite the silence, that he wasn't alone.

A cell loomed up before him without warning, the solid iron bars an inch from his face, and he ground to a halt with a low gasp, heart pounding. There was something within the cell, something that _moved_ – a dark form that shifted amidst the shadows, fluid and ethereal. Merlin tried to take a step back, but found a solid wall pressing against his shoulders, blocking any chance of escape. A liquid chill seemed to seep from the cold stone, flowing through his body, locking his limbs in place.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice low and tremulous as he fought helplessly against the unseen force that kept him immobilised.

_Emrys_, the voice whispered again. _Take heed._

Gathering his courage, Merlin steeled himself, peering between the bars of the cell with narrowed eyes. "What do you want?"

_The end draws near. All that you hold dear will be lost._

A cold sort of dread curled tight in his stomach at the words. Leaning forwards, he gripped the cell bars tightly.

"The end of what?"

The shadow lurched in a sudden movement, and ice-cold fingers closed about his wrist, tight enough to hurt. Merlin cried out, trying to pull away, but the shadowed figure's hold was firm and he could not break free.

"_You must **see**_," the phantom spoke, the cold breath like a winter breeze against Merlin's cheek, "_and remember, else all will be lost." _The warlock couldn't make out any facial features; the figure was cloaked in shadow and all save his bony fingers were indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. "_He is here. Take heed._"

The hand squeezed tighter for a moment, claw-like fingers biting into his skin like steel, and Merlin cried out again. Then just as abruptly, the shadowed figure withdrew, releasing him, and he slumped back against the stone wall, breathing raggedly.

"Remember what?" he asked, clutching his injured wrist to his chest. "I don't understand!"

But the darkness did not respond. Instead, it seemed to be growing, warping and stretching into grotesque angles, before breaking off into several separate shadows. Yellow slits formed – six pairs of eyes that glared at him from the darkness. A series of low, rumbling growls broke the silence of the dungeon, echoing off the stone walls. Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, pressing himself back against the wall as panic flooded him.

"No…"

A massive, black-furred paw suddenly thrust itself between the bars of the cell, and Merlin threw himself sideways to avoid the sharp claws. He stumbled and tripped, landing at an angle only to find the ground falling away beneath him, sending him tumbling head-over-heels down a slope.

Down and down he rolled, his surroundings a blur of colour and movement as the hard stone of the dungeon morphed into the green leaves of a forest, midnight became daylight, and suddenly he was laying at the foot of a marble throne amidst the ruins of a once-great castle.

Rubble was strewn across the floor of the throne room, vines and tree roots interwoven with the weathered hunks of stone as nature tried to swallow the remains. In contrast, the throne itself remained regal and resplendent, untouched by time. Gold glinted in the marble, snaking around the arms in an intricate pattern, and upon the cushioned seat sat a small wooden chest - unremarkable in light of the wealth that surrounded it, save for the object that lay within.

The amulet was carved of silver and untarnished by age, a circular disc no bigger than the palm of his hand. A yellow stone was set in its centre, burning like fire in the light of the sun, and runes had been etched in a complex, spiralling pattern around it, engraved into the silver.

Merlin felt drawn to the amulet as though it called to him, and his fingers were reaching for it before he had fully registered what he was doing.

_Emrys!_

The voice was closer now – a cold, biting breeze against his ear – and he turned sharply, spying movement out of the corner of his eye; a shadow passing out of sight behind the remains of a stone wall in a flutter of dark material, longs skirts swishing. _Morgana_. She was here. Even without adequate visual confirmation, Merlin could sense her – there was a familiar cold, unsettling feeling inside him coiling tighter and tighter as the magic in the earth around him turned sour, _dark_, tainted by her malice.

He felt a sudden, pressing need to protect the amulet, to hide it from sight where the sorceress could not find it, but as he turned back towards the throne and reached for the chest, he stopped short, heart seizing within his chest.

The amulet was gone.

Thunder boomed overhead, and he flinched, pressing the palms of his hands against his ears to silence the noise. Rain began to fall, light at first, but then in torrents, heavy and incessant against his skin like a midsummer's downpour.

_Take heed,_ the voice said again, fainter now,_ and remember. He is here._

"Remember what?" the warlock demanded desperately, shouting to be heard above the growing storm. "I don't understand! What do you _want_ from me?"

_Merlin…_

A louder clap of thunder sounded from above; a rolling, pounding cacophony of noise, drowning out the rain, his name carried in the roar of the wind. The voice was younger now, familiar, and-

"Merlin!"

He awoke with a start, narrowly avoiding knocking his head against Gwaine's chin as he jerked upright. His heart was hammering away within his chest, a frantic pounding that echoed in his ears as the thunder had done, and he stilled for a moment to catch his breath, eyes darting about the room. Arthur's chambers. The illumination was poor, with naught but the dying embers of the fire and a solitary candelabrum on the bedside dresser providing light, so clearly the sun had not yet risen.

The events of the previous evening returned to him; hazy images of slipping a sleeping draught into Arthur's goblet, of frantically trying to cool his friend's burning skin as the prince thrashed in the heat of feverish dreams, of resorting to magic but finding his powers useless against the illness. He remembered growing tired, eyes hot and aching, and how he'd pillowed his head in his arms – _only for a moment, just resting my eyes_ – and after that he must have fallen asleep.

Gods, so it had all been a dream? The dungeons, the throne room, the amulet? But it had felt so _real_.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed, a comforting pressure, and he glanced up to meet Gwaine's worried gaze. Thick, dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown as the older man regarded him steadily.

"Are you alright?"

_No_, was the honest answer, because not only had the dream been unsettling, but sleeping in the chair at Arthur's bedside, half-slumped across the mattress with his head pillowed in his arms, had given him one hell of a crick in his neck. He winced, stretching carefully, and brought a hand up to rub the area.

"M'fine," he answered instead, his voice low and rough from lack of use. He scrubbed at his eyes to banish the itchiness of fatigue and shifted to lean further over the bed, laying a palm against Arthur's forehead.

"Have you been here all night?" Gwaine asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping prince.

Merlin's brow creased at the heat that still radiated from Arthur's skin, and he reached for the bowl of water – stone cold now, but perhaps that was best – and the discarded cloth on the dresser at the bedside. Nodding in response to the knight's question, he folded the wet compress into a neat strip and pressed it to his friend's forehead. Arthur inhaled deeply, facial muscles twitching at the cold touch, and shifted restlessly in his sleep, but did not awaken.

Gwaine leaned against one of the wooden posts at the foot of the bed, watching their future king with a quiet, serious expression.  
"How is he?"

"His fever rose last night," Merlin replied, gently bathing Arthur's face and neck with the water. "Gaius hoped it would break before dawn, but you know how Arthur likes to be contrary about these things, the stubborn sod."

He tried to go for casual, dismissive – their usual _let's groan about our favourite clotpole_ banter – but it fell rather short of the mark. In all his years of service to the prince, Arthur had never fallen ill before; not like this. He had been injured, certainly, even poisoned on a couple of occasions, and he had a annoying propensity for very-nearly-almost-dying that Merlin was practically accustomed to by now. But those were typically magic-related, or the result of battle wounds, and there had always, _always_ been something that he could do to help; bandages to change and wounds to sew closed, a cure to find or a beast to slay to bring Arthur back to health,

But there was no miracle cure here. No healing potion or work of sorcery that could ease his friend's suffering. He had _tried_ that already, tried using a cooling spell to reduce Arthur's fever, but all that had done was make the prince shiver with cold while the fire still burned him from the inside.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder again, and Gwaine gave him a bolstering one-armed hug. "He'll be fine, Merlin," the bearded knight spoke reassuringly. "He's suffered through worse. Stubborn types, these royals."

Merlin heaved a tired sigh, but nodded. Gwaine was right. Arthur had fought dragons and dark sorcerers and an entire immortal army and emerged victorious. A fever would not defeat him, surely. He returned the cloth to its bowl and leaned back again, hiding a yawn behind his hand,

"What time is it?"

"Not long 'til dawn, I'd wager." Gwaine moved over to the hearth to stoke the fire back to life, the orange embers illuminating his face eerily in the semi-darkness of the room. "You should go and get some rest. The princess'll be awake and bossing you around again soon enough."

The young warlock shook his head, glancing down at Arthur. "No, I…I should stay here in case something happens."

"You've been holed up in here long enough already," Gwaine insisted, returning to his side and giving him a playful shove. "Go. I'll stay with him until he wakes up."

Merlin's gaze lingered on Arthur, uncertainty written across his features. But it had been an age since he'd last eaten – the fever had struck before he'd had the chance to grab a bite of supper the previous evening – and he wasn't going to be of much use to anybody like this. Reluctantly, he nodded and rose awkwardly from the chair, stiff joints protesting after so many hours of inactivity. He turned to glance at the knight beside him.

"Promise me you'll let me know if he gets any worse?"

Gwaine inclined his head. "I promise." He turned Merlin by the shoulders and gave the man another gentle shove, this time in the direction of the door. "Go. He'll still be here when you get back."

"He better be," Merlin warned, pointing a finger at him, but there was the shadow of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Gwaine might not have been the most responsible friend he could name, but he trusted the older man with his life (and the prince's), and he knew Arthur was in safe hands.

Still, he couldn't quite shake an uneasy feeling as he closed the chamber door behind him. Although perhaps that was the faint, echoing '_Emrys_' that still whispered at the back of his mind.

He rubbed at his wrist, the memory of the shadow's crushing grip still an echoing pain, hissing when his fingers encountered an area of tenderness. Slowing to a halt, he pulled the sleeve of his tunic up, frowning down at the limb. He felt his stomach lurch at the sight that met him.

Curling around his wrist, and as fresh as the day Sir Hugh had first given them to him, four finger-shaped bruises stood out in stark contrast to the usual pallor of his skin, the skin throbbing as though the injury was newly acquired, right down to the noticeable imprint of the nobleman's signet ring.

Oh, _fie_.

o~O~o

"It's been four days now," Sir Kay spoke, his gaze cast out over the training fields below as foot soldiers and squires and stablehands undertook their morning duties in the dim light of the approaching dawn, "and we've had no further reports of attacks on the outlying villages. Perhaps the worst of it has passed."

Leon gave a noncommittal hum, gloved finger tracing an idle pattern in the thin powdering of snow atop the flat wall of the battlements. Beside him, Sir Gildor also seemed unconvinced, grim-faced and silent as he kept a watchful eye on the open field below. After a moment, he turned his head to regard the other two men, hands braced on top of the wall and shoulders hunched a little.

"We still have no definitive answer as to the origin of the beasts," the elder knight remarked, his tone grave. "Gaius believes that the creatures are the servants of a long-dead sorcerer, but he says there is no way of knowing for certain. For all we know, the wolves may be a new creation of the Lady Morgana's."

"'Tis certainly more plausible an explanation," Kay agreed. He fell silent for a moment, hand clenching and unclenching upon the hilt of his sword in an agitated sort of manner, before he exhaled a sharp sigh. "I feel uncertain as to the wisdom of keeping the beasts imprisoned in the castle; wooden trinkets though they may be, at present."

Leon glanced his way, then dropped his gaze again to the training fields below and inclined his head. "That, brother, is a sentiment shared by many. Prince Arthur included. But he could see no alternative course of action, in light of the circumstances, and the safety of his people has ever been Arthur's first priority. Even when his own well-being is jeopardised in the process."

"Foolish lad," Gildor muttered, with a fond sort of gruffness.

"Well, he learnt from the best," Kay reasoned smoothly, shooting a sideways look at the older knight, eyes bright with mirth. "You trained him, after all."

Leon's lips twitched. "True. Given how passionately he emulated you as a lad, could you really have expected him to turn out any less stubborn-headed?"

Gildor arched an eyebrow at them and made a show gripping the hilt of his sword. "Care to back up such taunts with steel, sirs?"

"Wish I could," Kay sighed glumly, sounding genuinely regretful (although that was hardly surprising, given Kay's usual enthusiasm for sparring in any form), leaning back against the wall of the battlements and adjusting his sling so that it supported his splinted arm more comfortably. "No violent combat for another eight weeks, or so Merlin tells me. Rotten luck, really; the winter tournament is but six weeks hence."

Leon opened his mouth to express his sympathy at his friend's plight (for indeed, he had been in such a position himself countless times due to some injury or another), but the sudden arrival of a young page drew his attention.

"My lords," the boy greeted with a quick bow, somewhat breathless from running, "forgive the intrusion, but Sir Harn thought you'd want to know that the council has been called to an emergency session."

Brow furrowing, Leon shared a curious glance with Gildor. When last they had checked on Arthur, the prince had still been fast asleep in his chambers, under the watchful eyes of Gwaine and Percival. He found it unlikely that the younger man would have awoken and called the council into session without first discussing it with the knights, who in turn would have sought out Gildor and himself in person. With a wary look in his eyes, he turned his gaze back towards the messenger.

"On whose orders, Erin?"

"Lord Aggravaine's, sir." Erin gave another bow. "Will that be all, my lords?"

"Yes," Leon replied distractedly, but spared a smile for the lad. "Thank you."

For a moment they stood in silence, waiting until the boy's footsteps had faded away into nothing, before Leon turned to face his companions. While Kay looked confused, Gildor's frown matched his own, crease-for-crease.

"I believe I missed the edict that appointed Aggravaine as the voice of authority in Arthur's stead," the greying knight spoke, and while his tone was mild, his disapproval was apparent to those who knew him well. "The prince has been abed less than a day, 'tis hardly cause for such extreme measures."

"Perhaps something has happened," Kay suggested, worry now darkening his features as he began moving towards the stairwell that descended back down into the castle. "Perhaps there's been another attack."

Leon gave a hum of acknowledgement, following the injured knight as they made their way down from the battlements. Whatever the cause, he knew it was of paramount importance to attend the council session. It wasn't that he didn't trust Lord Aggravaine, but the man had demonstrated in the past that his own method of running the kingdom often differed greatly from the prince's, and Leon knew that Arthur would not approve of his uncle making decisions regarding matters of state without first consulting him.

While he did not possess the authority to override Aggravaine's decisions, Leon had been a quiet presence in council sessions for many years now, and was well-known by the members therein. Perhaps he could sway their vote towards a solution that Arthur would approve of; or if not, at least stall the decision long enough for the prince to regain his health and overrule whatever folly Aggravaine had decreed as law.

o~O~o

Lancelot inspected the slim wrist carefully, eyes dark with concern at the vivid bruising that marred the pale skin, but his expression carefully blank.  
"Less than a few hours old, I'd say. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Merlin shifted closer to him on the low bench and dropping his voice as though fearing that they would be overheard, despite being the only current occupants of the armoury, "it's been _four days_ since my disagreement with Sir Hugh. The bruising ought to have faded by now."

The knight's eyes snapped up at that, his gaze sharp and searching. "Hugh? _He_ did this to you?" At Merlin's nod, his expression darkened somewhat. "And when in god's name were you planning on telling me this?"

Merlin opened his mouth, closed it again, then averted his gaze, tugging his wrist free and pulling down the sleeve of his tunic to cover the marks. "I'd all but forgotten about it until this morning. Besides, given everything else that's happened, it didn't seem important. But-"

"Of course it was important," Lancelot interrupted, tone firm as he raked his eyes up and down Merlin's body as though searching for more hidden injuries. "He had no right to lay a hand on you. If Arthur knew-"

"No," Merlin blurted, caching Lancelot's arm, a quiet urgency in his voice. "Don't tell him, please. Arthur's got enough on his plate already. And I don't want him getting involved in anything to do with Sir Hugh, not until I'm sure."

Lancelot's brow creased. "Sure about what?"

Shooting a quick glance towards the entrance on the other side of the wide room – although the wooden door remained fast shut, he still felt as though someone or some_thing_ was watching him – he ducked his head down further, voice dropping to a whisper.

"I think Hugh may be the controlling force behind the recent attacks," he disclosed, holding Lancelot's gaze as the other man's eyes widened fractionally. Before his friend could voice the questions that were clearly bubbling up, he raised a hand to forestall them. "I don't know _how_, and I don't know _why_, but…there's something about him that unsettles me. I've been watching him these past few days, making sure he steers clear of Arthur, and the feeling just keeps getting stronger."

"Do you think he has magic?" Lancelot asked seriously. "You've said before that you can sense when Morgana is near, like a growing dread within you. Is the feeling akin to that?"

Merlin fell silent for a moment, drawing a knee up to his chest and bracing his foot on the edge of the bench, wrapping his arms around his bent leg as he thought it over. While he could not _feel_ the magic in Hugh, not directly, but certainly dark sorcery had played a part somewhere. He was sure of it. It lingered about the nobleman like a foul stench.

"I don't know," he confessed eventually, fiddling with the sleeve of his tunic. "There's this… darkness about him. Not unlike Morgana's, I suppose. But hidden, less noticeable, like he's been touched by dark magic - tainted by it - but he doesn't hold such power himself."

"Well, at least that tells us he's involved with sorcery on some level," Lancelot acknowledged, standing up and beginning to pace slowly. "So he's what, under a dark spell? In league with Morgana? And what about that other sorcerer Gaius spoke of – Gilderoth? How does he fit into all this?"

Slowly running his fingers over the fresh bruises on his wrist, Merlin bit his lip and exhaled a long, slow sigh through his nose. His brain still felt addled from the dream he'd been so abruptly woken from an hour ago, he was having trouble making sense of the facts. He had been so _sure_ that Hugh would prove to be the one responsible, perhaps acting as a pawn for Gilderoth. But he had learned long ago that his dreams were often a conduit for external forces of magic – first Kilgharrah, then the faeries of the Darkening Woods not three months ago, and now _this_. The amulet was of great significance, of that he was certain. Even in the dream, he had sensed its power. And then Morgana had appeared and vanished in the span of a heartbeat, and when he'd next looked, the amulet had gone.

So had Morgana taken it? Is _that_ what the disembodied voice had been trying to tell him? Perhaps the stony ruins were what remained of Gilderoth's once-great fortress at the heart of the five kingdoms. Perhaps the amulet had been his, and Morgana had taken it in an attempt to resurrect the long-dead sorcerer of legend.

But _who_ had spoken to him in the dream? Spoken in voice as ancient as the earth itself, and whispered to the magic deep within him? It had been a warning, that alone was clear, but how could he trust the words? Visions had led him astray before.

Gods, it made his head hurt. He knew even less now than he had done before.

"Merlin."

Warm fingers closed over his wrist and he blinked, stirring from his thoughts, eyes refocusing to meet Lancelot's worried gaze as the knight crouched down in front of him. Merlin realised belatedly that he must have been lost in thought for some time (going by the cramping in his leg), and mustered a smile to reassure the other man that all was well. His gaze flickered to where Lancelot held his wrist gently, long fingers almost overlapping the fresh bruises.

_You must **see**, and remember,_ the voice spoke inside his head, an echo of the words that had haunted his dream, _else all will be lost_.

Suddenly the feeling of uncertainty within him vanished, and he _knew_ (although perhaps only the gods knew how) that whoever the voice belonged to was on his side. Magic thrummed within him, a warm burst of courage, and the cold fear that had hung over him for days now seemed to dissipate. Power surged through him, a giddy sort of sensation that made him feel _whole_, and he embraced it gladly, a genuine smile stretching across his face.

"Merlin," Lancelot said again, hesitantly, and reached up to tap his temple. "Merlin, your _eyes_."

And just like that, the connection snapped, and the sense of brimming magic faded again. He could tell by the look of relief of Lancelot's face that his eyes had returned to their usual colour, and he let himself sag back against the wall behind him, suddenly tired. The knight stood from his crouch and moved to regain his seat on the bench instead, keeping a steadying grip on Merlin's arms, his gaze wary.

"What just happened?"

Merlin raked his fingers through his hair, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know. I felt…_alive_. Like magic itself. And there was that _voice_."

Lancelot's expression grew concerned again. "What voice?"

"The voice from my dream. Long story." He stood abruptly and headed for the door. "I'll tell you on the way to Hugh's chambers."

"What?" Lancelot hurried to catch up with him, taking him by the arm to halt his hasty retreat. "Why are we confronting Hugh? I thought you said you wanted to wait until you were certain."

"I'm not going to confront him," Merlin reassured, tugging against his friend's gentle grip. "I'm going to search his chambers."

"And what if he's _in_ them?"

"We create a distraction to make him leave," the warlock replied with confidence. "And _then_ we search his chambers."

Lancelot seemed unconvinced as to the wisdom of such a plan, but let Merlin drag him off down the corridor all the same. "And what, exactly, are we looking for?"

Merlin quickened his pace, determined now. "An amulet," he replied. "We're looking for Gilderoth's amulet."

* * *

**_Is it truly magic guiding Merlin, or is something more sinister at play? Is Hugh the one in possession of Gilderoth's amulet, or is Morgana the one to blame? And what the hell is Aggravaine up to, that black-hearted devil of a man?_**

**_Find out next week. ;)_**

**_Feel free to let me know what you thought of the chapter, or any theories you may have regarding Gilderoth/Hugh/the wolves/Aggravaine. I always love to hear from you! _**

**_Thanks for reading,_**

**_Grapefruit xxx_**


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